 | Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn |  |
iii
I. Vol. I.
The Odoherty Papers
1
[MEMOIR OF MORGAN ODOHERTY]
8
[If a lover, sweet creature, should foolishly seek]
If a lover, sweet creature, should foolishly seek
On thy face for the bloom of the rose,
Oh tell him, although it has died on thy cheek,
He will find it at least on thy nose.
On thy face for the bloom of the rose,
Oh tell him, although it has died on thy cheek,
He will find it at least on thy nose.
Sweet emblem of virtue! rely upon this,
Should thy bosom be wantonly prest,
That if the rude ravisher gets but a kiss,
He'll be ready to fancy the rest!
Should thy bosom be wantonly prest,
That if the rude ravisher gets but a kiss,
He'll be ready to fancy the rest!
9
[Ah, 'tis a weary night! Alas, will sleep]
Euphemia.Ah, 'tis a weary night! Alas, will sleep
Ne'er darken my poor day-lights! I have watched
The stars all rise and disappear again;
Capricorn, Orion, Venus, and the Bear:
I saw them each and all. And they are gone,
Yet not a wink for me. The blessed Moon
Has journeyed through the sky: I saw her rise
Above the distant hills, and gloriously
Decline beneath the waters. My poor head aches
Beyond endurance. I'll call on Beatrice,
And bid her bring me the all-potent draught
Left by Fernando the apothecary,
At his last visit. Beatrice! She sleeps
As sound as a top. What, ho, Beatrice!
Thou art indeed the laziest waiting maid
That ever cursed a princess. Beatrice!
Beatrice.
Coming, your highness; give me time to throw
My night-gown o'er my shoulders, and to put
My flannel dicky on; 'tis mighty cold
At these hours of the morning.
Euphem.
Beatrice.
Beat.
I'm groping for my slippers; would you have me
Walk barefoot o'er the floors? Lord, I should catch
My death of cold.
Euphem.
And must thy mistress, then, I say, must she
Endure the tortures of the damned, whilst thou
Art groping for thy slippers! Selfish wretch!
Learn, thou shalt come stark-naked at my bidding,
Or else pack up thy duds and hop the twig.
Beat.
Oh, my lady, forgive me that I was so slow
In yielding due obedience. Pray, believe me,
It ne'er shall happen again. Oh, it would break
My very heart to leave so beautiful
And kind a mistress. Oh, forgive me!
Euphem.
Well, well; I fear I was too hasty:
10
Have soured my natural temper. Bring me the phial
Of physic left by that skilful leech Fernando,
With Laudanum on the label. It stands
Upon the dressing-table, close by the rouge
And the Olympian dew. No words. Evaporate.
Beat.
[exit.
I fly!
Euphem.
(sola.)
Alas, Don Carlos, mine own
Dear wedded husband! wedded! yes; wedded
In th' eye of Heaven, though not in that of man,
Which sees the forms of things, but least knows
That which is in the heart. Oh, can it be,
That some dull words, muttered by a parson
In a long drawling tone, can make a wife,
And not the—
Enter Beatrice.
Beat.
Laudanum on the label; right:
Here, my lady, is the physic you require.
Euphem.
Then pour me out one hundred drops and fifty,
With water in the glass, that I may quaff
Oblivion to my misery.
Beat.
'Tis done.
Euphem.
(drinks.)
My head turns round; it mounts into my brain.
I feel as if in paradise! My senses mock me:
Methinks I rest within thine arms, Don Carlos;
Can it be real? Pray, repeat that kiss!
I am thine own Euphemia. This is bliss
Too great for utterance. Oh, ye gods
If Hellespont and Greece! Alas, I faint.
[faints.
11
[Oh, lady, in the laughing hours]
Oh, lady, in the laughing hours,When time and joy go hand in hand;
When pleasure strews thy path with flowers,
And but to wish is to command;
When thousands swear, that to thy lips
A more than angel's voice is given,
And that thy jetty eyes eclipse
The bright, the blessed stars of heaven;
Might it not cast a trembling shade
Across the light of mirth and song,
To think that there is one, sweet maid,
That loved thee hopelessly and long;
That loved, yet never told his flame,
Although it burned his soul to madness;
That lov'd, yet never breathed thy name,
Even in his fondest dreams of gladness.
Though red my coat, yet pale my face,
Alas, 'tis love that made it so,
Thou only canst restore its grace,
And bid its wonted blush to glow.
Restore its blush! oh, I am wrong,
For here thine art were all in vain;
My face has ceased to blush so long,
I fear it ne'er can blush again!
12
[Captain Godolphin was a very odd and stingy man]
Captain Godolphin was a very odd and stingy man,
Whose skipper was, as I'm assur'd, of a schooner-rigg'd West Indiaman;
The wind was fair, he went on board, and when he sail'd from Dover,
Says he, “this trip is but a joke, for now I'm half seas over!”
Whose skipper was, as I'm assur'd, of a schooner-rigg'd West Indiaman;
The wind was fair, he went on board, and when he sail'd from Dover,
Says he, “this trip is but a joke, for now I'm half seas over!”
The captain's wife, she sail'd with him, this circumstance I heard of her,
Her brimstone breath, 'twas almost death to come within a yard of her;
With fiery nose, as red as rose, to tell no lies I'll stoop,
She looked just like an admiral with a lantern at his poop.
Her brimstone breath, 'twas almost death to come within a yard of her;
With fiery nose, as red as rose, to tell no lies I'll stoop,
She looked just like an admiral with a lantern at his poop.
Her spirits sunk from eating junk, and as she was an epicure,
She swore a dish of dolphin fish would of her make a happy cure.
The captain's line, so strong and fine, had hooked a fish one day,
When his anxious wife Godolphin cried, and the dolphin swam away.
She swore a dish of dolphin fish would of her make a happy cure.
The captain's line, so strong and fine, had hooked a fish one day,
When his anxious wife Godolphin cried, and the dolphin swam away.
The wind was foul, the weather hot, between the tropics long she stewed,
The latitude was 5 or 6, 'bout 50 was the longitude,
When Jack the cook once spoilt the sauce, she thought it mighty odd,
But her husband bawl'd on deck, why, here's the Saucy Jack, by God.
The latitude was 5 or 6, 'bout 50 was the longitude,
When Jack the cook once spoilt the sauce, she thought it mighty odd,
But her husband bawl'd on deck, why, here's the Saucy Jack, by God.
The captain sought his charming wife, and whispered to her private ear,
“My love, this night we'll have to fight a thumping Yankee privateer.”
On this he took a glass of rum, by which he showed his sense;
Resolved that he would make at least a spirited defence.
“My love, this night we'll have to fight a thumping Yankee privateer.”
On this he took a glass of rum, by which he showed his sense;
Resolved that he would make at least a spirited defence.
13
The captain of the Saucy Jack, he was a dark and dingy man;
Says he, “my ship must take, this trip, this schooner-rigg'd West Indianman.
Each at his gun, we'll show them fun, the decks are all in order:
But mind that every lodger here, must likewise be a boarder.”
Says he, “my ship must take, this trip, this schooner-rigg'd West Indianman.
Each at his gun, we'll show them fun, the decks are all in order:
But mind that every lodger here, must likewise be a boarder.”
No, never was there warmer work, at least I rather think not,
With cannon, cutlass, grappling-iron, blunderbuss, and stink-pot.
The Yankee captain, boarding her, cried, either strike or drown;
Godolphin answered, “then I strike,” and quickly knocked him down.
With cannon, cutlass, grappling-iron, blunderbuss, and stink-pot.
The Yankee captain, boarding her, cried, either strike or drown;
Godolphin answered, “then I strike,” and quickly knocked him down.
16
[Great king of the ocean, transcendent and grand]
Great king of the ocean, transcendent and grand
Dost thou rest 'mid the waters so blue;
So vast is thy form, I am sure, on dry land,
It would cover an acre or two.
Dost thou rest 'mid the waters so blue;
So vast is thy form, I am sure, on dry land,
It would cover an acre or two.
Thou watery Colossus, how lovely the sight,
When thou sailest majestic and slow,
And the sky and the ocean together unite
Their splendor around thee to throw.
When thou sailest majestic and slow,
17
Their splendor around thee to throw.
Or near to the pole, 'mid the elements' strife,
Where the tempest the seaman appals,
Unmoved, like a Continent pregnant with life,
Or rather a living St. Paul's.
Where the tempest the seaman appals,
Unmoved, like a Continent pregnant with life,
Or rather a living St. Paul's.
Thee soon as the Greenlander fisherman sees,
He plans thy destruction, odd rot him;
And often, before thou hast time to cry pease,
He has whipped his harpoon in thy bottom.
He plans thy destruction, odd rot him;
And often, before thou hast time to cry pease,
He has whipped his harpoon in thy bottom.
19
[“Confusion seize your lowsy sowl, ye nasty dirty varment]
“Confusion seize your lowsy sowl, ye nasty dirty varment,Ye goes your ways, and leaves me here without the least preferment;
When you've drunk my gin, and robbed my till, and stolen all my pelf, ye
Sail away, and think no more on your wife at Philadelphy.”
[Have you sailed on the breast of the deep]
Have you sailed on the breast of the deep,
When the winds had all silenced their breath,
And the waters were hushed in as holy a sleep,
And as calm, as the slumber of death.
When the yellow moon beaming on high,
Shone tranquilly bright on the wave,
And careered through the vast and impalpable sky,
Till she found in the ocean a grave,
And dying away by degrees on the sight,
The waters were clad in the mantle of night.
When the winds had all silenced their breath,
And the waters were hushed in as holy a sleep,
And as calm, as the slumber of death.
When the yellow moon beaming on high,
Shone tranquilly bright on the wave,
And careered through the vast and impalpable sky,
Till she found in the ocean a grave,
And dying away by degrees on the sight,
The waters were clad in the mantle of night.
20
'Twould impart a delight to thy soul,
As I felt it imparted to mine,
And the draught of affliction that blackened my bowl
Grew bright as the silvery brine.
I carelessly lay on the deck,
And listened in silence to catch
The wonderful stories of battle or wreck
That were told by the men of the watch.
Sad stories of demons most deadly that be,
And of mermaids that rose from the depths of the sea.
As I felt it imparted to mine,
And the draught of affliction that blackened my bowl
Grew bright as the silvery brine.
I carelessly lay on the deck,
And listened in silence to catch
The wonderful stories of battle or wreck
That were told by the men of the watch.
Sad stories of demons most deadly that be,
And of mermaids that rose from the depths of the sea.
Strange visions my fancy had filled,
I was wet with the dews of the night;
And I thought that the moon still continued to gild
The wave with a silvery light.
I sunk by degrees into sleep,
I thought of my friends who were far,
When a form seemed to glide o'er the face of the deep,
As bright as the evening star,
Ne'er rose there a spirit more lovely and fair,
Yet I trembled to think that a spirit was there.
I was wet with the dews of the night;
And I thought that the moon still continued to gild
The wave with a silvery light.
I sunk by degrees into sleep,
I thought of my friends who were far,
When a form seemed to glide o'er the face of the deep,
As bright as the evening star,
Ne'er rose there a spirit more lovely and fair,
Yet I trembled to think that a spirit was there.
Emerald green was her hair,
Braided with gems of the sea,
Her arm, like a meteor, she waved in the air,
And I knew that she beckoned on me.
She glanced upon me with her eyes,
How ineffably bright was their blaze;
I shrunk and I trembled with fear and surprise,
Yet still I continued to gaze;
But enchantingly sweet was the smile of her lip,
And I followed the vision and sprang from the ship.
Braided with gems of the sea,
Her arm, like a meteor, she waved in the air,
And I knew that she beckoned on me.
She glanced upon me with her eyes,
How ineffably bright was their blaze;
I shrunk and I trembled with fear and surprise,
Yet still I continued to gaze;
But enchantingly sweet was the smile of her lip,
And I followed the vision and sprang from the ship.
'Mid the waves of the ocean I fell,
The dolphins were sporting around,
And many a triton was tuning the shell,
And extatic and wild was the sound;
There were thousands of fathoms above,
And thousands of fathoms below;
And we sunk to the caves where the sea lions rove,
And the topaz and emerald glow,
Where the diamond and sapphire eternally shed,
Their lustre around on the bones of the dead.
The dolphins were sporting around,
And many a triton was tuning the shell,
And extatic and wild was the sound;
There were thousands of fathoms above,
And thousands of fathoms below;
And we sunk to the caves where the sea lions rove,
And the topaz and emerald glow,
Where the diamond and sapphire eternally shed,
Their lustre around on the bones of the dead.
And well might their lustre be bright,
For they shone on the limbs of the brave,
Of those who had fought in the terrible fight,
And were buried at last in the wave.
In grottoes of coral they slept,
On white beds of pearl around;
And near them for ever the water snake crept,
And the sea lion guarded the ground,
While the dirge of the heroes by spirits was rung,
And solemn and wild were the strains that they sung.
For they shone on the limbs of the brave,
Of those who had fought in the terrible fight,
And were buried at last in the wave.
21
On white beds of pearl around;
And near them for ever the water snake crept,
And the sea lion guarded the ground,
While the dirge of the heroes by spirits was rung,
And solemn and wild were the strains that they sung.
Dirge.
Sweet is the slumber the mariners sleep,
Their bones are laid in the caves of the deep,
Far over their heads the tempests sweep,
That ne'er shall wake them more;
They died when raved the bloody fight,
And loud was the cannon's roar;
Their death was dark, their glory bright,
And they sunk to rise no more,
They sunk to rise no more.
But the loud wind past,
When they breathed their last,
And it carried their dying sigh
In a winding-sheet,
With a shot at their feet,
In coral caves they lie,
In coral caves they lie.
Their bones are laid in the caves of the deep,
Far over their heads the tempests sweep,
That ne'er shall wake them more;
They died when raved the bloody fight,
And loud was the cannon's roar;
Their death was dark, their glory bright,
And they sunk to rise no more,
They sunk to rise no more.
But the loud wind past,
When they breathed their last,
And it carried their dying sigh
In a winding-sheet,
With a shot at their feet,
In coral caves they lie,
In coral caves they lie.
Or where the syren of the rocks
Lovely waves her sea-green locks,
Where the deadly breakers foam,
Found they an eternal home.
Lovely waves her sea-green locks,
Where the deadly breakers foam,
Found they an eternal home.
Horrid and long were the struggles of death,
Black was the night when they yielded their breath,
But not on the ocean, all buoyant and bloated,
The sport of the waters their white bodies floated,
For they were borne to coral caves,
Distant far beneath the waves,
And there on beds of pearl they sleep,
And far over their heads the tempests sweep,
That ne'er shall wake them more,
That ne'er shall wake them more.
Black was the night when they yielded their breath,
But not on the ocean, all buoyant and bloated,
The sport of the waters their white bodies floated,
For they were borne to coral caves,
Distant far beneath the waves,
And there on beds of pearl they sleep,
And far over their heads the tempests sweep,
That ne'er shall wake them more,
That ne'er shall wake them more.
22
[Come, push round the bottle; one glass ere we part]
Come, push round the bottle; one glass ere we part
Must in sadness go round to the friends of my heart,
With whom many a bright hour of joy has gone by,
Whom with pleasure I met, whom I leave with a sigh.
Must in sadness go round to the friends of my heart,
With whom many a bright hour of joy has gone by,
Whom with pleasure I met, whom I leave with a sigh.
Yes, the hours have gone by; like a bright sunny gleam,
In the dark sky of winter, they fled like a dream;
Yet when years shall have cast their dim shadows between,
I shall fondly remember the days that have been.
In the dark sky of winter, they fled like a dream;
Yet when years shall have cast their dim shadows between,
I shall fondly remember the days that have been.
Come, push round the bottle; for ne'er shall the chain
That has bound us together be broken in twain,
And I'll drink, wheresoever my lot may be cast,
To the friends that I love, and the days that are past.
That has bound us together be broken in twain,
And I'll drink, wheresoever my lot may be cast,
To the friends that I love, and the days that are past.
26
[Let Dandies to M'Culloch go]
Let Dandies to M'Culloch go,
And Ministers to Fortune's hall;
For Indians Oman's claret flow,
In John M'Phails let lawyers crow,
These places seem to me so so,
I love Bill Young's above them all.
And Ministers to Fortune's hall;
For Indians Oman's claret flow,
In John M'Phails let lawyers crow,
27
I love Bill Young's above them all.
One only rival, honest Bill,
Hast thou in Morgan's whim;
I mean Ben Waters, charming Ben,
Simplest and stupidest of men;
I take a tankard now and then,
And smoke a pipe with him.
Hast thou in Morgan's whim;
I mean Ben Waters, charming Ben,
Simplest and stupidest of men;
I take a tankard now and then,
And smoke a pipe with him.
Dear Ben! dear Bill! I love you both,
Between you oft my fancy wavers;
Thou, Bill, excell'st in sheepshead broth;
Thy porter-mugs are crowned with froth;
At Young's I listen, nothing loth,
To my dear Dilettanti shavers.
O scene of merriment and havers,
Of good rum-punch, and puns, and clavers,
And warbling sweet Elysian quavers!—
Who loves not Young's must be a Goth.
Between you oft my fancy wavers;
Thou, Bill, excell'st in sheepshead broth;
Thy porter-mugs are crowned with froth;
At Young's I listen, nothing loth,
To my dear Dilettanti shavers.
O scene of merriment and havers,
Of good rum-punch, and puns, and clavers,
And warbling sweet Elysian quavers!—
Who loves not Young's must be a Goth.
31
[While worldly men through stupid years]
While worldly men through stupid years
Without emotion jog,
Devoid of passions, hopes, and fears,
As senseless as a log—
I much prefer my nights to spend,
A happy ranting dog,
And see dull care his front unbend
Before the smile of Hogg.
Without emotion jog,
Devoid of passions, hopes, and fears,
As senseless as a log—
32
A happy ranting dog,
And see dull care his front unbend
Before the smile of Hogg.
The life of man's a season drear,
Immersed in mist and fog,
Until the star of wit appear,
And set its clouds agog.
For me, I wish no brighter sky
Than o'er a jug of grog,
When fancy kindles in the eye,
The good gray eye of Hogg.
Immersed in mist and fog,
Until the star of wit appear,
And set its clouds agog.
For me, I wish no brighter sky
Than o'er a jug of grog,
When fancy kindles in the eye,
The good gray eye of Hogg.
When Misery's car is at its speed,
The glowing wheels to cog;
To make the heart where sorrows bleed
Leap lightly like a frog;
Gay verdure o'er the crag to shower,
And blossoms o'er the bog,
Wit's potent magic has the power,
When thou dost wield it, Hogg!
The glowing wheels to cog;
To make the heart where sorrows bleed
Leap lightly like a frog;
Gay verdure o'er the crag to shower,
And blossoms o'er the bog,
Wit's potent magic has the power,
When thou dost wield it, Hogg!
[O hone, Odoherty!]
O hone, Odoherty!
I canna weel tell what is wrang;
But oh, man, since you gaed frae me,
The days are unco dull and lang.
I try the paper and the sclate,
And pen, and cawk, and killivine;
But nothing can I write of late,
That even Girzzy ca's divine.
O hone, Odoherty!
O hone, Odoherty!
Oh weary fa' the fates' decree,
That garred the Captain part frae me.
I canna weel tell what is wrang;
But oh, man, since you gaed frae me,
The days are unco dull and lang.
33
And pen, and cawk, and killivine;
But nothing can I write of late,
That even Girzzy ca's divine.
O hone, Odoherty!
O hone, Odoherty!
Oh weary fa' the fates' decree,
That garred the Captain part frae me.
O hone, Odoherty!
Come back, come back to Ettrick lake,
And ye sall hear, and ye sall see,
What I'se do for the Captain's sake.
I'll coff tobacco o' the best,
And pipes baith lang and short I'se gie;
And the toddy-stoup sall ne'er get rest,
Frae morn till night, 'tween you and me.
O hone, Odoherty!
O hone, Odoherty!
O welcome sall the moment be
That brings the Captain back to me.
Come back, come back to Ettrick lake,
And ye sall hear, and ye sall see,
What I'se do for the Captain's sake.
I'll coff tobacco o' the best,
And pipes baith lang and short I'se gie;
And the toddy-stoup sall ne'er get rest,
Frae morn till night, 'tween you and me.
O hone, Odoherty!
O hone, Odoherty!
O welcome sall the moment be
That brings the Captain back to me.
[When wondering ages shall have rolled away]
When wondering ages shall have rolled away,And that be ancient which is new to-day;
When time has pour'd his warm and softening glow
O'er that pale virgin's throbbing breast of snow,
And lent the settled majesty of years
To those grim Spahis, and those proud viziers;
From distant lands the ardent youth shall come
To gaze with admiration—breathless—dumb—
To fix his eyes, like orbs of marble, there!
And let his soul luxuriate in despair.
34
What Raphael is, my Allan then shall be.
35
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A BALL-ROOM.
The beaux are jogging on the pictured floor,
The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels;
While I, deserted, the cold pangs deplore,
Or breathe the wrath which slighted beauty feels.
The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels;
While I, deserted, the cold pangs deplore,
Or breathe the wrath which slighted beauty feels.
When first I entered glad, with glad mamma,
The girls were ranged and clustered round us then;
Few beaux were there, those few with scorn I saw,
Unknowing Dandies that could come at ten.
The girls were ranged and clustered round us then;
Few beaux were there, those few with scorn I saw,
Unknowing Dandies that could come at ten.
My buoyant heart beat high with promised pleasure,
My dancing garland moved with airy grace;
Quick beat my active toe to Gow's gay measure,
And undissembled triumph wreathed my face.
My dancing garland moved with airy grace;
Quick beat my active toe to Gow's gay measure,
And undissembled triumph wreathed my face.
36
Fancy prospective took a proud survey
Of all the coming glories of the night;
Even where I stood my legs began to play—
So racers paw the turf e'er jockeys smite.
Of all the coming glories of the night;
Even where I stood my legs began to play—
So racers paw the turf e'er jockeys smite.
And “who shall be my partner first?” I said,
As my thoughts glided o'er the coming beaux;
“Not Tom, nor Ned, nor Jack,”—I tossed my head,
Nice grew my taste, and high my scorn arose.
As my thoughts glided o'er the coming beaux;
“Not Tom, nor Ned, nor Jack,”—I tossed my head,
Nice grew my taste, and high my scorn arose.
“If Dicky asks me, I shall spit and sprain;
When Sam approaches, headaches I will mention;
I'll freeze the colonel's heart with cold disdain;”
Thus cruelly ran on my glib invention.
When Sam approaches, headaches I will mention;
I'll freeze the colonel's heart with cold disdain;”
Thus cruelly ran on my glib invention.
While yet my fancy revelled in her dreams,
The sets are forming, and the fiddles scraping;
Gow's wakening chord a stirring prelude screams,
The beaux are quizzing, and the misses gaping.
The sets are forming, and the fiddles scraping;
Gow's wakening chord a stirring prelude screams,
The beaux are quizzing, and the misses gaping.
Beau after beau approaches, bows, and smiles,
Quick to the dangler's arm springs glad ma'amselle;
Pair after pair augments the sparkling files,
And full upon my ear “the triumph” swells.
Quick to the dangler's arm springs glad ma'amselle;
Pair after pair augments the sparkling files,
And full upon my ear “the triumph” swells.
I flirt my fan in time with the mad fiddle,
My eye pursues the dancers' motions flying;
Cross hands! Balancez! down and up the middle!
To join the revel how my heart is dying.
My eye pursues the dancers' motions flying;
Cross hands! Balancez! down and up the middle!
To join the revel how my heart is dying.
One miss sits down all glowing from the dance,
Another rises, and another yet;
Beaux upon belles, and belles on beaux advance,
The tune unending, ever full the set.
Another rises, and another yet;
Beaux upon belles, and belles on beaux advance,
The tune unending, ever full the set.
At last a pause there comes—to Gow's keen hand
The hurrying lackey hands the enlivening port;
The misses sip the ices where they stand,
And gather vigor to renew the sport.
The hurrying lackey hands the enlivening port;
The misses sip the ices where they stand,
And gather vigor to renew the sport.
I round the room dispense a wistful glance,
Wish Ned, or Dick, or Tom, would crave the honor;
I hear Sam whisper to Miss B., “Do—dance,”
And launch a withering scowl of envy on her.
Wish Ned, or Dick, or Tom, would crave the honor;
I hear Sam whisper to Miss B., “Do—dance,”
And launch a withering scowl of envy on her.
Sir Billy capers up to Lady Di;
In vain I cough as gay Sir Billy passes;
The Major asks my sister—faint I sigh,
“Well after this—the men are grown such asses!”
In vain I cough as gay Sir Billy passes;
The Major asks my sister—faint I sigh,
“Well after this—the men are grown such asses!”
In vain! in vain! again the dancers mingle,
With lazy eye I watch the busy scene,
Far on the pillowed sofa sad and single,
Languid the attitude—but sharp the spleen.
With lazy eye I watch the busy scene,
37
Languid the attitude—but sharp the spleen.
“La! ma'am, how hot!”—“You're quite fatigued, I see;”
“What a long dance!”—“And so you're come to town!”
Such casual whispers are addressed to me,
But not one hint to lead the next set down.
“What a long dance!”—“And so you're come to town!”
Such casual whispers are addressed to me,
But not one hint to lead the next set down.
The third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, are gone,
And now the seventh—and yet I'm asked not once
When supper comes must I descend alone?
Does Fate deny me my last prayer—a dunce?
And now the seventh—and yet I'm asked not once
When supper comes must I descend alone?
Does Fate deny me my last prayer—a dunce?
Mamma supports me to the room for munching,
There turkey's breast she crams, and wing of pullet;
I slobbering jelly, and hard nuts am crunching,
And pouring tuns of trifle down my gullet.
There turkey's breast she crams, and wing of pullet;
I slobbering jelly, and hard nuts am crunching,
And pouring tuns of trifle down my gullet.
No beau invites me to a glass of sherry;
Above me stops the salver of champaign;
While all the rest are tossing brimmers merry,
I with cold water comfort my disdain.
Above me stops the salver of champaign;
While all the rest are tossing brimmers merry,
I with cold water comfort my disdain.
Ye bucks of Edinburgh! ye tasteless creatures!
Ye vapid Dandies! how I scorn you all!—
Green slender slips, with pale cheese-pairing features,
And awkward, lumb'ring, red-faced boobies tall.
Ye vapid Dandies! how I scorn you all!—
Green slender slips, with pale cheese-pairing features,
And awkward, lumb'ring, red-faced boobies tall.
Strange compounds of the beau and the attorney!
Raw lairds! and school-boys for a whisker shaving!
May injured beauty's glance of fury burn ye!
I hate you—clowns and fools!—but hah!—I'm raving!
Raw lairds! and school-boys for a whisker shaving!
May injured beauty's glance of fury burn ye!
I hate you—clowns and fools!—but hah!—I'm raving!
[There was a time when every sort of people]
There was a time when every sort of people
Created, relished, and commended jokes;
But now a joker's stared at, like a steeple,
By the majority of Christian folks.
Dulness has tanned her hide to thickness triple,
And Observation sets one in the stocks,
When you've been known a comic song to sing,
Write notices, or any harmless thing.
Created, relished, and commended jokes;
But now a joker's stared at, like a steeple,
By the majority of Christian folks.
Dulness has tanned her hide to thickness triple,
And Observation sets one in the stocks,
When you've been known a comic song to sing,
Write notices, or any harmless thing.
38
This Edinburgh, Edina, or Dunedin—
('Cleped, in the Bailie's lingo, “the Good Town;”
But styled “Auld Reekie” by all Celts now treading
Her streets, bows, winds, lanes, crescents, up and down,
Her labyrinths of stairs and closes threading
On other people's business or their own—
Those bandy, broad-faced, rough-kneed, ragged laddies—
Those horney-fisted, those gill-swigging caddies.)
('Cleped, in the Bailie's lingo, “the Good Town;”
But styled “Auld Reekie” by all Celts now treading
Her streets, bows, winds, lanes, crescents, up and down,
Her labyrinths of stairs and closes threading
On other people's business or their own—
Those bandy, broad-faced, rough-kneed, ragged laddies—
Those horney-fisted, those gill-swigging caddies.)
This Edinburgh some call Metropolis,
And Capital, and Athens of the North—
I know not what they mean.—I'm sure of this,—
Tho' she abounds in men of sense and worth,
Her staple and predominant qualities
Are ignorance, and nonsense, and so forth;
I don't like making use of a hard word,
But 'tis the merest hum I ever heard.
And Capital, and Athens of the North—
I know not what they mean.—I'm sure of this,—
Tho' she abounds in men of sense and worth,
Her staple and predominant qualities
Are ignorance, and nonsense, and so forth;
I don't like making use of a hard word,
But 'tis the merest hum I ever heard.
There's our Mackenzie; all with veneration
See him that Harley felt and Caustic drew:
There's Scott, the pride and darling of his nation,
Poet and cavalier, kind, generous, true.
There's Jeffrey, who has been the botheration
Of the whole world with his glib sharp Review,
And made most young Scots lawyers mad with whiggery—
There's Leslie, Stewart, Alison, and Gregory.
See him that Harley felt and Caustic drew:
There's Scott, the pride and darling of his nation,
Poet and cavalier, kind, generous, true.
There's Jeffrey, who has been the botheration
Of the whole world with his glib sharp Review,
And made most young Scots lawyers mad with whiggery—
There's Leslie, Stewart, Alison, and Gregory.
39
But these and some few others being named,
I don't remember one more great gun in her;
The remanent population can't be blamed,
Because their chief concern in life's their dinner.
To give examples I should be ashamed,
And people would cry, “Lord! that wicked sinner!”
(For all we gentry here are quite egg-shells,
We can't endure jokes that comes near “oor-sells.”)
I don't remember one more great gun in her;
The remanent population can't be blamed,
Because their chief concern in life's their dinner.
To give examples I should be ashamed,
And people would cry, “Lord! that wicked sinner!”
(For all we gentry here are quite egg-shells,
We can't endure jokes that comes near “oor-sells.”)
They say that knowledge is diffused and general,
And taste and understanding are so common,
I'd rather see a sweep-boy suck a penny roll
Than listen to a criticising woman.
And as for poetry, the time of dinner all,
Thank God, I then have better things to do, man.—
Exceptions 'gainst the fair were coarse and shocking—
I've seen in breeches many a true blue stocking.
And taste and understanding are so common,
I'd rather see a sweep-boy suck a penny roll
Than listen to a criticising woman.
40
Thank God, I then have better things to do, man.—
Exceptions 'gainst the fair were coarse and shocking—
I've seen in breeches many a true blue stocking.
Blue stocking stands, in my vocabulary,
For one that always chatters (sex is nothing)
About new books from June to January,
And with re-echoed carpings moves your loathing
I like to see young people smart and airy,
With well dressed hair and fashionable clothing,
Can't they discourse about ball, rout, or play,
And know reviewing's quite out of their way?
For one that always chatters (sex is nothing)
About new books from June to January,
And with re-echoed carpings moves your loathing
I like to see young people smart and airy,
With well dressed hair and fashionable clothing,
Can't they discourse about ball, rout, or play,
And know reviewing's quite out of their way?
It strikes me as a thing exceeding stupid,
This conversation about books, books, books,
When I was young, and sat midst damsels grouped,
I talked of roses, zephyrs, gurgling brooks,
Venus, the Graces, Dian, Hymen, Cupid,
Perilous glances, soul ubduing looks,
Slim tapering fingers, glossy clustering curls,
Diamonds and emeralds, cairngorms and pearls.
This conversation about books, books, books,
When I was young, and sat midst damsels grouped,
I talked of roses, zephyrs, gurgling brooks,
Venus, the Graces, Dian, Hymen, Cupid,
Perilous glances, soul ubduing looks,
Slim tapering fingers, glossy clustering curls,
Diamonds and emeralds, cairngorms and pearls.
On Una that made sunshine in the shade,
And Emily with eye of liquid jet,
And gentle Desdemona, and the maid
That sleeps within the tomb of Capulet
Hearts love to ponder—would it not degrade
Our notion of a nymph like Juliet,
To be informed that she had just read thro'
Last Number of the Edinburgh Review?
And Emily with eye of liquid jet,
And gentle Desdemona, and the maid
That sleeps within the tomb of Capulet
Hearts love to ponder—would it not degrade
Our notion of a nymph like Juliet,
To be informed that she had just read thro'
Last Number of the Edinburgh Review?
Leave ye to dominies and sticker stibblers,
And all the sedentary generation,
The endless chitter-chatter about scribblers,
And England's melancholy situation.
Let them be still the customary nibblers
Of all that rule or edify the nation;
Leave off the corn-bill, and the law of libel,
And read the Pilgrim's Progress or your Bible.
And all the sedentary generation,
The endless chitter-chatter about scribblers,
And England's melancholy situation.
Let them be still the customary nibblers
Of all that rule or edify the nation;
Leave off the corn-bill, and the law of libel,
And read the Pilgrim's Progress or your Bible.
[I rose this morning about half past nine]
I rose this morning about half past nine,
At breakfast coffee I consumed pour quatre,
Unnumbered rolls enriched with marmalade fine,
And little balls of butter dished in water,
Three eggs, two plateful of superb cold chine
(Much recommended to make thin folks fatter);
And having thus my ballast stow'd on board,
Roamed forth to kill a day's time like a lord.
At breakfast coffee I consumed pour quatre,
Unnumbered rolls enriched with marmalade fine,
And little balls of butter dished in water,
41
(Much recommended to make thin folks fatter);
And having thus my ballast stow'd on board,
Roamed forth to kill a day's time like a lord.
How I contrived to pass the whole forenoon,
I can't remember though my life were on it;
I helped G. T. in jotting of a tune,
And hinted rhymes to G---s for a sonnet;
Called at the Knox's shop with Miss Balloon
And heard her ipsa dixit on a bonnet;
Then washed my mouth with ices, tarts, and flummeries,
And ginger-beer and soda, at Montgomery's.
I can't remember though my life were on it;
I helped G. T. in jotting of a tune,
And hinted rhymes to G---s for a sonnet;
42
And heard her ipsa dixit on a bonnet;
Then washed my mouth with ices, tarts, and flummeries,
And ginger-beer and soda, at Montgomery's.
Down Prince's Street I once or twice paraded,
And gazed upon these same eternal faces;
Those beardless beaux and bearded belles, those faded
And flashy silks, surtouts, pelisses, laces,
Those crowds of clerks, astride on hackneys jaded,
Prancing and capering with notorial grace;
Dreaming enthusiasts who indulge vain whimsies,
That they might pass in Bond Street or St. James's.
And gazed upon these same eternal faces;
Those beardless beaux and bearded belles, those faded
And flashy silks, surtouts, pelisses, laces,
Those crowds of clerks, astride on hackneys jaded,
Prancing and capering with notorial grace;
Dreaming enthusiasts who indulge vain whimsies,
That they might pass in Bond Street or St. James's.
I saw equestrian and pedestrian vanish
—One to a herring in his lonely shop.
And some of kind gregarious, and more clanish,
To club at Waters' for a mutton-chop;
Myself resolved for once my cares to banish,
And give the Cerberus of thought a sop,
Got Jack's, and Sam's, and Dick's, and Tom's consent,
And o'er the Mound to Billy Young's we went.
—One to a herring in his lonely shop.
And some of kind gregarious, and more clanish,
To club at Waters' for a mutton-chop;
Myself resolved for once my cares to banish,
And give the Cerberus of thought a sop,
Got Jack's, and Sam's, and Dick's, and Tom's consent,
And o'er the Mound to Billy Young's we went.
I am not nice, I care not what I dine on,
A sheep's head or beef-steak is all I wish;
Old Homer! how he loved the ερυθρον οινον
It is the glass that glorifies the dish.
The thing that I have always set my mind on
(A small foundation laid of fowl, flesh, fish)
Is out of bottle, pitcher, or punch-bowl,
To suck reviving solace to my soul.
A sheep's head or beef-steak is all I wish;
Old Homer! how he loved the ερυθρον οινον
It is the glass that glorifies the dish.
The thing that I have always set my mind on
(A small foundation laid of fowl, flesh, fish)
Is out of bottle, pitcher, or punch-bowl,
To suck reviving solace to my soul.
43
Life's a dull dusty desert, waste and drear,
With now and then an oasis between,
Where palm-trees rise, and fountains gushing clear
Burst neath the shelter of that leafy screen;
Haste not your parting steps, when such appear,
Repose, ye weary travellers, on the green.
Horace and Milton, Dante, Burns, and Schiller,
Dined at a tavern—when they had “the siller.”
With now and then an oasis between,
Where palm-trees rise, and fountains gushing clear
Burst neath the shelter of that leafy screen;
Haste not your parting steps, when such appear,
Repose, ye weary travellers, on the green.
Horace and Milton, Dante, Burns, and Schiller,
Dined at a tavern—when they had “the siller.”
And ne'er did poet, epical or tragical,
At Florence, London, Weimar, Rome, Maybole,
See time's dark lanthern glow with hues more magical
Than I have witnessed in the Coffin-hole.
Praise of antiquity a bam and fudge I call,
Ne'er past the present let my wishes roll;
A fig for all comparing, croaking grumblers,
Hear me, dear dimpling Billy, bring the tumblers.
At Florence, London, Weimar, Rome, Maybole,
See time's dark lanthern glow with hues more magical
Than I have witnessed in the Coffin-hole.
Praise of antiquity a bam and fudge I call,
Ne'er past the present let my wishes roll;
A fig for all comparing, croaking grumblers,
Hear me, dear dimpling Billy, bring the tumblers.
Let blank verse hero, or Spenserian rhymer,
Treat Donna Musa with chateau-margout,
Chateau-la-fitte, Johannisberg, Hocheimer,
In tall outlandish glasses green and blue,
Thanks to my stars, myself, a doggrel-chimer,
Have nothing with such costly tastes to do;
My muse is always kindest when I court her
O'er whiskey-punch, gin-twist, strong beer, and porter.
Treat Donna Musa with chateau-margout,
Chateau-la-fitte, Johannisberg, Hocheimer,
In tall outlandish glasses green and blue,
Thanks to my stars, myself, a doggrel-chimer,
Have nothing with such costly tastes to do;
My muse is always kindest when I court her
O'er whiskey-punch, gin-twist, strong beer, and porter.
And O, my pipe, though in these Dandy days
Few love thee, fewer still their love confess,
Ne'er let me blush to celebrate thy praise,
Divine invention of the age of Bess!
I for a moment interrupt my lays
The tiny tube with loving lip to press,
I'll then come back with a reviving zest,
And give thee three more stanzas of my best.
Few love thee, fewer still their love confess,
Ne'er let me blush to celebrate thy praise,
Divine invention of the age of Bess!
I for a moment interrupt my lays
The tiny tube with loving lip to press,
I'll then come back with a reviving zest,
And give thee three more stanzas of my best.
(I smoke.)
Pipe! whether plain in fashion of Frey-herr,
Or gaudy glittering in the taste of Boor,
Deep-darkened Meer-shaum or Ecume-de-mer,
Or snowy clay of Gowda, light and pure.
Let different people different pipes prefer,
Delft, horn, or catgut, long, short, older, newer,
Puff, every brother, as it likes him best,
De gustibus non disputandum est.
Or gaudy glittering in the taste of Boor,
Deep-darkened Meer-shaum or Ecume-de-mer,
Or snowy clay of Gowda, light and pure.
Let different people different pipes prefer,
Delft, horn, or catgut, long, short, older, newer,
Puff, every brother, as it likes him best,
De gustibus non disputandum est.
44
Pipe! when I stuff into thee my canaster,
With flower of camomile and leaf of rose,
And the calm rising fume comes fast and faster,
Curling with balmy circles near my nose,
And all the while my dexter hand is master
Of the full cup from Meux's vat that flows,
Heavens! all my brain a soft oblivion wraps
Of wafered letters and of single taps.
With flower of camomile and leaf of rose,
And the calm rising fume comes fast and faster,
Curling with balmy circles near my nose,
And all the while my dexter hand is master
Of the full cup from Meux's vat that flows,
Heavens! all my brain a soft oblivion wraps
Of wafered letters and of single taps.
I've no objections to a good segar,
A true Havana, smooth, and moist, and brown;
But then the smoke's too near the eye by far,
And out of doors 'tis in a twinkling flown;
And somehow it sets all my teeth ajar,
When to an inch or so we've smoked him down;
And if your leaf have got a straw within it,
You know 'tis like a cinder in a minute.
A true Havana, smooth, and moist, and brown;
45
And out of doors 'tis in a twinkling flown;
And somehow it sets all my teeth ajar,
When to an inch or so we've smoked him down;
And if your leaf have got a straw within it,
You know 'tis like a cinder in a minute.
46
I have no doubt a long excursive hooker
Suits well some lordly lounger of Bengal,
Who never writes, or looks into a book, or
Does any thing with earnestness at all;
He sits, and his tobacco's in the nook, or
Tended by some black heathen in the hall,
Lays up his legs, and thinks he does great things
If once in the half hour a puff he brings.
Suits well some lordly lounger of Bengal,
Who never writes, or looks into a book, or
Does any thing with earnestness at all;
He sits, and his tobacco's in the nook, or
Tended by some black heathen in the hall,
Lays up his legs, and thinks he does great things
If once in the half hour a puff he brings.
I rather follow in my smoking trim
The example of Scots cottars and their wives
Who, while the evening air is warm and dim,
In July sit beside their garden hives;
And, gazing all the while with wrinkles grim
To see how the concern of honey thrives,
Empty before they've done a four-ounce bag
Of sailors' twist, or, what's less common—shag.
The example of Scots cottars and their wives
Who, while the evening air is warm and dim,
In July sit beside their garden hives;
And, gazing all the while with wrinkles grim
To see how the concern of honey thrives,
Empty before they've done a four-ounce bag
Of sailors' twist, or, what's less common—shag.
50
SONG I.
Confusion to routs and at homes,
To assemblies, and balls, and what not;
'Tis with pain e'er Odoherty roams
From the scenes of the pipe and the pot.
Your Dandies may call him a sot,
They never can call him a spoon;
And Odoherty cares not a jot,
For he's sure you won't join in the tune.
With your pipes and your swipes,
And your herrings and tripes,
You never can join in the tune.
To assemblies, and balls, and what not;
'Tis with pain e'er Odoherty roams
From the scenes of the pipe and the pot.
Your Dandies may call him a sot,
They never can call him a spoon;
51
For he's sure you won't join in the tune.
With your pipes and your swipes,
And your herrings and tripes,
You never can join in the tune.
I'm a swapper, as every one knows,
In my pumps six feet three inches high;
'Tis no wonder your minikin beaux
Have a fancy to fight rather shy
Of a Gulliver chap such as I,
That could stride over troops of their tribes,
That had never occasion to buy
Either collars, or calves, or kibes.
My boot wrenches and pinches,
Though 'tis wide twenty inches,
And I don't bear my brass at my kibes.
In my pumps six feet three inches high;
'Tis no wonder your minikin beaux
Have a fancy to fight rather shy
Of a Gulliver chap such as I,
That could stride over troops of their tribes,
That had never occasion to buy
Either collars, or calves, or kibes.
My boot wrenches and pinches,
Though 'tis wide twenty inches,
And I don't bear my brass at my kibes.
When I see a fantastical hopper,
A trim little chip of the ton,
Not so thick as your Highness' pipe-stopper,
And scarcely, I take it, so long,
Swaddled prim and precise as a prong,
With his ribs running all down and up,
Says I, Does the creature belong
To the race of the ewe or the tup?
With their patches and their scratches,
And their plastered mustaches,
They are more of the ewe than the tup.
A trim little chip of the ton,
Not so thick as your Highness' pipe-stopper,
And scarcely, I take it, so long,
Swaddled prim and precise as a prong,
With his ribs running all down and up,
Says I, Does the creature belong
To the race of the ewe or the tup?
With their patches and their scratches,
And their plastered mustaches,
They are more of the ewe than the tup.
SONG II.
That nothing is perfect has frequently been
By the wisest philosophers stated untruly;
Which only can prove that they never had seen
The agreeable Lady Lucretia Gilhooly.
Where's the philosopher would not feel loss of her?
Whose bosom these bright sunny eyes would not thaw?
Although I'm a game one, these little highwaymen
Have rifled the heart of poor Major M'Craw.
By the wisest philosophers stated untruly;
Which only can prove that they never had seen
The agreeable Lady Lucretia Gilhooly.
Where's the philosopher would not feel loss of her?
Whose bosom these bright sunny eyes would not thaw?
Although I'm a game one, these little highwaymen
Have rifled the heart of poor Major M'Craw.
Cook sail'd round the world, and Commodore Anson
The wonders he met with has noted down duly;
But Cook, nor yet Anson, could e'er light by chance on
A beauty like Lady Lucretia Gilhooly.
Let astronomer asses still peep through their glasses,
Then tell all the stars and the planets they saw;
Damn Georgium Sidus! We've Venus beside us,
And that is sufficient for Major M'Craw.
The wonders he met with has noted down duly;
But Cook, nor yet Anson, could e'er light by chance on
A beauty like Lady Lucretia Gilhooly.
Let astronomer asses still peep through their glasses,
Then tell all the stars and the planets they saw;
Damn Georgium Sidus! We've Venus beside us,
And that is sufficient for Major M'Craw.
57
THE ENGLISH SAILOR AND THE KING OF ACHEN'S DAUGHTER.
A Tale of Terror.
Come, listen Gentles all,
And Ladies unto me,
And you shall be told of a Sailor bold
As ever sail'd on Sea.
And Ladies unto me,
And you shall be told of a Sailor bold
As ever sail'd on Sea.
'Twas in the month of May,
Sixteen hundred sixty and four,
We sallied out, both fresh and stout,
In the good ship Swift-sure.
Sixteen hundred sixty and four,
We sallied out, both fresh and stout,
In the good ship Swift-sure.
With wind and weather fair
We sail'd from Plymouth Sound,
And the Line we crossed, and the Cape we pass'd,
Being to China bound.
We sail'd from Plymouth Sound,
And the Line we crossed, and the Cape we pass'd,
Being to China bound.
And we sail'd by Sunda Isles,
And Ternate and Tydore,
Till the wind it lagg'd, and our sails they flagg'd,
In sight of Achen's shore.
And Ternate and Tydore,
Till the wind it lagg'd, and our sails they flagg'd,
In sight of Achen's shore.
Becalm'd, days three times three,
We lay in th' burning sun;
Our Water we drank, and our Meat it stank,
And our Biscuits were well nigh done.
We lay in th' burning sun;
Our Water we drank, and our Meat it stank,
And our Biscuits were well nigh done.
Oh! then 'twas an awful sight
Our Seamen for to behold,
Who t'other day were so fresh and gay,
And their hearts as stout as gold.
Our Seamen for to behold,
Who t'other day were so fresh and gay,
And their hearts as stout as gold.
But now our hands they shook,
And our cheeks were yellow and lean—
Our faces all long, and our nerves unstrung,
And loose and squalid our skin.
And our cheeks were yellow and lean—
Our faces all long, and our nerves unstrung,
And loose and squalid our skin.
And we walk'd up and down the deck
As long as our legs could bear us;
And we thirsted all, but no rain would fall,
And no dews arise to cheer us.
As long as our legs could bear us;
58
And no dews arise to cheer us.
But the red red Sun from the sky
Lent his scorching beams all day,
Till our tongues, through drought, hung out of our mouth,
And we had no voice to pray.
Lent his scorching beams all day,
Till our tongues, through drought, hung out of our mouth,
And we had no voice to pray.
And the hot hot air from the South
Did lie on our lungs all night
As if the grim Devil, with his mouth full of evil,
Had blown on our troubled Sprite.
Did lie on our lungs all night
As if the grim Devil, with his mouth full of evil,
Had blown on our troubled Sprite.
At last, so it happ'd one night,
When we all in our hammocks lay,
Bereft of breath, and expecting death
To come ere break of day.
When we all in our hammocks lay,
Bereft of breath, and expecting death
To come ere break of day.
On a sudden a cooling breeze
Shook the hammock where I was lain;
And then, by Heaven's grace, I felt on my face
A drop of blessed rain.
Shook the hammock where I was lain;
And then, by Heaven's grace, I felt on my face
A drop of blessed rain.
I open'd my half-closed eyes,
And my mouth I open'd it wide
And I started with joy, from my hammock so high,
And “A breeze, a breeze!” I cried.
And my mouth I open'd it wide
And I started with joy, from my hammock so high,
And “A breeze, a breeze!” I cried.
But no man heard me cry,
And the breeze again fell down;
And a clap of Thunder, with fear and wonder
Nigh cast me in a swound.
And the breeze again fell down;
And a clap of Thunder, with fear and wonder
Nigh cast me in a swound.
I dared not look around,
Till, by degrees grown bolder,
I saw a grim sprite, by the moon's pale light,
Dim glimmering at my shoulder.
Till, by degrees grown bolder,
I saw a grim sprite, by the moon's pale light,
Dim glimmering at my shoulder.
He was drest in a Seamen's jacket,
Wet trowsers, and dripping hose,
And an unfelt wind, I heard behind,
That whistled among his clothes.
Wet trowsers, and dripping hose,
And an unfelt wind, I heard behind,
That whistled among his clothes.
I look'd at him by the light of the stars,
I look'd by the light of the moon,
And I saw, though his face was cover'd with scars,
John Jewkes, my Sister's Son.
I look'd by the light of the moon,
And I saw, though his face was cover'd with scars,
John Jewkes, my Sister's Son.
“Alas! John Jewkes,” I cried,
“Poor boy, what brings thee here?”
But nothing he said, but hung down his head,
And made his bare scull appear.
“Poor boy, what brings thee here?”
But nothing he said, but hung down his head,
And made his bare scull appear.
59
Then I, by my grief grown bold,
To take his hand endeavor'd,
But his head he turned round, which a gaping wound
Had nigh from his shoulders sever'd.
To take his hand endeavor'd,
But his head he turned round, which a gaping wound
Had nigh from his shoulders sever'd.
He opened his mouth to speak,
Like a man with his last breath struggling,
And, before every word, in his throat was heard
A horrible misguggling.
Like a man with his last breath struggling,
And, before every word, in his throat was heard
A horrible misguggling.
At last, with a broken groan,
He gurgled, “Approach not me!
For the Fish have my head, and the Indians my blood,
'Tis only my Ghost you see.
He gurgled, “Approach not me!
For the Fish have my head, and the Indians my blood,
'Tis only my Ghost you see.
“And dost thou not remember,
Three years ago to-day,
How at Aunt's we tarried, when Sister was married
To Farmer Robin, pray?
Three years ago to-day,
How at Aunt's we tarried, when Sister was married
To Farmer Robin, pray?
“Oh! then we were blythe and jolly,
But none of us all had seen,
While we sung and we laugh'd, and the stout ale quaff'd,
That our number was thirteen.
But none of us all had seen,
While we sung and we laugh'd, and the stout ale quaff'd,
That our number was thirteen.
“And none of all the party,
At the head of the table, saw,
While our cares we drown'd, and the flagon went round,
Old Goody Martha Daw.
At the head of the table, saw,
While our cares we drown'd, and the flagon went round,
Old Goody Martha Daw.
“But Martha she was there,
Though she never spake a word;
And by her sat her old black cat,
Though it never cried or purr'd.
Though she never spake a word;
And by her sat her old black cat,
Though it never cried or purr'd.
“And she lean'd on her oaken crutch,
And a bundle of sticks she broke,
And her prayers backward mutter'd, and the Devil's words utter'd.
Though she never a word out spoke.
And a bundle of sticks she broke,
And her prayers backward mutter'd, and the Devil's words utter'd.
Though she never a word out spoke.
“'Twas on a Thursday morn,
That very day was se'nnight,
I ran to sweet Sue, to bid her adieu,
For I could not stay a minute.
That very day was se'nnight,
I ran to sweet Sue, to bid her adieu,
For I could not stay a minute.
“Then crying with words so tender,
She gave me a true lover's locket,
That I still might love her, forgetting her never—
So I put it in my pocket.
She gave me a true lover's locket,
That I still might love her, forgetting her never—
So I put it in my pocket.
“And then we kiss'd and parted,
And knew not, all the while,
That Martha was nigh, on her broomstick so high,
Looking down with a devilish smile.
And knew not, all the while,
60
Looking down with a devilish smile.
“So I went to sea again,
With my heart brim-full of Sue;
Though my mind misgave me, the salt waters would have me,
And I'd take my last adieu.
With my heart brim-full of Sue;
Though my mind misgave me, the salt waters would have me,
And I'd take my last adieu.
“We made a prosperous voyage
Till we came to this fatal coast,
When a storm it did rise, in seas and in skies,
That we gave ourselves up for lost.
Till we came to this fatal coast,
When a storm it did rise, in seas and in skies,
That we gave ourselves up for lost.
“Our vessel it was stranded
All on the shoals of Achen,
And all then did die, save only I,
And I hardly saved my bacon.
All on the shoals of Achen,
And all then did die, save only I,
And I hardly saved my bacon.
“It happ'd that very hour,
The Black King walking by
Did see me sprawling, on hands and knees crawling,
And took to his palace hard by.
The Black King walking by
Did see me sprawling, on hands and knees crawling,
And took to his palace hard by.
“And finding that I was
A likely lad for to see,
My bones well knit, and my joints well set,
And not above twenty-three,
A likely lad for to see,
My bones well knit, and my joints well set,
And not above twenty-three,
“He made me his gardener boy,
To sow pease and potatoes,
To water his flowers, when there were no showers,
And cut his parsley and lettuce.
To sow pease and potatoes,
To water his flowers, when there were no showers,
And cut his parsley and lettuce.
“Now it so fell out on a Sunday
(Which these Pagans never keep holy),
I was gathering rue, and thinking on Sue,
With a heart full of melancholy,
(Which these Pagans never keep holy),
I was gathering rue, and thinking on Sue,
With a heart full of melancholy,
“When the King of Achen's Daughter
Did open her casement to see;
And, as she look'd round on the gooseberry ground,
Her eyes they lit upon me;
Did open her casement to see;
And, as she look'd round on the gooseberry ground,
Her eyes they lit upon me;
“And seeing me tall and slim,
And of shape right personable;
My skin so white, and so very unlike
The blacks at her Father's table,
And of shape right personable;
My skin so white, and so very unlike
The blacks at her Father's table,
“She took it into her head
(For so the Devil did move her),
That I in good sooth, was a comely youth,
And would make a gallant Lover.
(For so the Devil did move her),
That I in good sooth, was a comely youth,
And would make a gallant Lover.
61
“So she tripp'd from her chamber so high,
All in silks and satins clad,
And her gown it rustled, as down she bustled,
With steps like a Princess sad.
All in silks and satins clad,
And her gown it rustled, as down she bustled,
With steps like a Princess sad.
“Her shoes they were deck'd with pearls,
And her hair with diamonds glisten'd,
And her gimcracks and toys, they made such a noise,
My mouth water'd the while I listen'd.
And her hair with diamonds glisten'd,
And her gimcracks and toys, they made such a noise,
My mouth water'd the while I listen'd.
“Then she tempted me with glances,
And with sugar'd words so tender,
(And tho' she was black, she was straight in the back,
And young, and tall, and slender—)
And with sugar'd words so tender,
(And tho' she was black, she was straight in the back,
And young, and tall, and slender—)
“But I my Love remember'd,
And the locket she did give me,
And resolv'd to be true to my darling Sue,
As she did ever believe me.
And the locket she did give me,
And resolv'd to be true to my darling Sue,
As she did ever believe me.
“Whereat the Princess wax'd
Both furious and angry,
And said, she was sure I had some Paramour
In kitchen or in laundry.
Both furious and angry,
And said, she was sure I had some Paramour
In kitchen or in laundry.
“And then, with a devilish grin,
She said, ‘Give me your locket’—
But I damn'd her for a Witch, and a conjuring Bitch,
And kept it in my pocket.
She said, ‘Give me your locket’—
But I damn'd her for a Witch, and a conjuring Bitch,
And kept it in my pocket.
“Howbeit, both day and night
She did torture and torment,
And said she, ‘If you'll yield to me the field,
‘I'll give thee thy heart's content.
She did torture and torment,
And said she, ‘If you'll yield to me the field,
‘I'll give thee thy heart's content.
“‘But give me up the locket,
‘And stay three months with me,
‘And then, if the will remains with you still,
‘I'll ship you off to sea.”
‘And stay three months with me,
‘And then, if the will remains with you still,
‘I'll ship you off to sea.”
“So I thought it the only way
To behold my lovely Sue,
And the thoughts of Old England, they made my heart tingle, and
I gave up the locket so true.
To behold my lovely Sue,
And the thoughts of Old England, they made my heart tingle, and
I gave up the locket so true.
“Thereon she laugh'd outright
With a hellish grin, and I saw
That the Princess was gone, and in her room
There stood old Martha Daw.
With a hellish grin, and I saw
That the Princess was gone, and in her room
There stood old Martha Daw.
“She was all astride a Broomstick,
And bid me get up behind;
So my wits being lost, the Broomstick I cross'd,
And away we flew, swift as the wind.
And bid me get up behind;
62
And away we flew, swift as the wind.
“But my head it soon turn'd giddy,
I reel'd and lost my balance,
So I tumbled over, like a perjur'd lover,
A warning to all gallants.
I reel'd and lost my balance,
So I tumbled over, like a perjur'd lover,
A warning to all gallants.
“And there where I tumbled down
The Indians found me lying;
My head they cut off, and my blood did quaff,
And set my flesh afrying.
The Indians found me lying;
My head they cut off, and my blood did quaff,
And set my flesh afrying.
“Hence, all ye English gallants,
A warning take by me,
Your true love's locket to keep in your pocket
Whenever you go to sea.
A warning take by me,
Your true love's locket to keep in your pocket
Whenever you go to sea.
“And, oh dear uncle Thomas,
I come to give you warning,
As then 'twas my chance with Davy to dance,
'Twill be yours to-morrow morning.
I come to give you warning,
As then 'twas my chance with Davy to dance,
'Twill be yours to-morrow morning.
“'Twas three years agone this night,
Three years gone clear and clean,
Since we sat down at Aunt's at the wedding to dance,
And our number was thirteen.
Three years gone clear and clean,
Since we sat down at Aunt's at the wedding to dance,
And our number was thirteen.
“Now I and sister Nan,
(Two of that fatal party)
Have both gone from Aunt's, with Davy to dance,
Tho' then we were hale and hearty.
(Two of that fatal party)
Have both gone from Aunt's, with Davy to dance,
Tho' then we were hale and hearty.
“And, as we both have died,
(I speak it with grief and sorrow—)
At the end of each year, it now is clean
That you should die to-morrow.
(I speak it with grief and sorrow—)
At the end of each year, it now is clean
That you should die to-morrow.
“But if, good uncle Thomas,
You'll promise, and promise truly,
To plough the main for England again,
And perform my orders duly,
You'll promise, and promise truly,
To plough the main for England again,
And perform my orders duly,
“Old Davy will allow you
Another year to live,
To visit your friends, and make up your odd ends,
And your enemies forgive.
Another year to live,
To visit your friends, and make up your odd ends,
And your enemies forgive.
“But friend, when you reach Old England,
To Laure'ston town you'll go,
And then to the Mayor, in open fair,
Impeach old Martha Daw.
To Laure'ston town you'll go,
And then to the Mayor, in open fair,
Impeach old Martha Daw.
63
“And next you'll see her hang'd
With the halter around her throat;
And, when void of life, with your clasp knife
The string of her apron cut.
With the halter around her throat;
And, when void of life, with your clasp knife
The string of her apron cut.
“Then, if that you determine
My last desires to do,
In her left hand pocket, you'll find the locket,
And carry it to Sue.”
My last desires to do,
In her left hand pocket, you'll find the locket,
And carry it to Sue.”
The grisly Spectre thus
In mournful accents spoke,
By which time, being morning, he gave me no warning,
But vanish'd in sulphur and smoke.
In mournful accents spoke,
By which time, being morning, he gave me no warning,
But vanish'd in sulphur and smoke.
Next day there sprang up a breeze,
And our ship began to tack,
And for fear of the Ghost, we left the coast,
And sail'd for England back.
And our ship began to tack,
And for fear of the Ghost, we left the coast,
And sail'd for England back.
And I being come home,
Did all his words pursue;
Old Martha likewise was hung at the 'size,
And I carried the locket to Sue.
Did all his words pursue;
Old Martha likewise was hung at the 'size,
And I carried the locket to Sue.
And now, being tired of life,
I make up my mind to die;
But I thought this story I'd lay before ye,
For the good of Posterity.
I make up my mind to die;
But I thought this story I'd lay before ye,
For the good of Posterity.
Oh never then sit at table
When the number is thirteen;
And, lest witches be there, put salt in your beer,
And scrape your platters clean.
When the number is thirteen;
And, lest witches be there, put salt in your beer,
And scrape your platters clean.
This imitation of Monk Lewis's “Tales of Wonder,” and of part of Coleridge's “Ancient Mariner,” has something of the flavor of the quaint ballad, called “As I sailed, as I sailed,” in which are recorded the piratical deeds and pendulous exit of Captain Kyd.—M.
64
TO THE CHILD OF CORINNA!
Oh, boy! may the wit of thy mother awaking
On thy dewy lip tremble, when years have gone by,
While the fire of Odoherty, fervidly breaking,
In glances and gleams, may illume thy young eye.
On thy dewy lip tremble, when years have gone by,
While the fire of Odoherty, fervidly breaking,
In glances and gleams, may illume thy young eye.
Oh! then such a fulness of power shall be seen
With the graces so blending, in union endearing,
That angels shall glide o'er the ocean green,
To catch a bright glimpse of the glory of Erin!
With the graces so blending, in union endearing,
That angels shall glide o'er the ocean green,
To catch a bright glimpse of the glory of Erin!
Oh! sure such a vision of beauty and might,
Commingling, in splendor, by him was exprest
The old Lydian sculptor, the delicate sprite,
That in Venus' soft girdle his Hercules drest.
Commingling, in splendor, by him was exprest
The old Lydian sculptor, the delicate sprite,
That in Venus' soft girdle his Hercules drest.
78
[“The ‘Whig,’ the lover, and the poet]
“The ‘Whig,’ the lover, and the poet,Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold—
The madman.”
79
[“Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea]
“Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea,Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont;
Even so my ‘frantic’ thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble sense,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up.”
82
INCONSTANCY; A SONG TO MRS. M'WHIRTER.
By Mr. Odoherty.
“Ye fleeces of gold amidst crimson enroll'd
That sleep in the calm western sky,
Lovely relics of day float—ah! float not away!
Are ye gone? then, ye beauties, good-bye!”
It was thus the fair maid I had loved would have staid
The last gleamings of passion in me;
But the orb's fiery glow in the soft wave below
Had been cooled—and the thing could not be.
That sleep in the calm western sky,
Lovely relics of day float—ah! float not away!
Are ye gone? then, ye beauties, good-bye!”
It was thus the fair maid I had loved would have staid
The last gleamings of passion in me;
But the orb's fiery glow in the soft wave below
Had been cooled—and the thing could not be.
While thro' deserts you rove, if you find a green grove
Where the dark branches overhead meet,
There repose you a while from the heat and the toil,
And be thankful the shade is so sweet;
But if long you remain it is odds but the rain
Or the wind 'mong the leaves may be stirring,
They will strip the boughs bare—you're a fool to stay there—
Change the scene without further demurring.
Where the dark branches overhead meet,
There repose you a while from the heat and the toil,
And be thankful the shade is so sweet;
But if long you remain it is odds but the rain
Or the wind 'mong the leaves may be stirring,
They will strip the boughs bare—you're a fool to stay there—
Change the scene without further demurring.
If a rich-laden tree in your wanderings you see
With the ripe fruit all glowing and swelling,
Take your fill as you pass—if you don't you're an ass,
But I daresay you don't need my telling—
'Twould be just as great fooling to come back for more pulling,
When a week or two more shall have gone,
These firm plums very rapidly, they will taste very vapidly,
—By good luck we'll have pears coming on!
With the ripe fruit all glowing and swelling,
Take your fill as you pass—if you don't you're an ass,
But I daresay you don't need my telling—
'Twould be just as great fooling to come back for more pulling,
83
These firm plums very rapidly, they will taste very vapidly,
—By good luck we'll have pears coming on!
All around Nature's range is from changes to changes,
And in change all her charming is centered—
When you step from the stream where you've bathed, 'twere a dream
To suppose't the same stream that you entered;
Each clear crystal wave just a passing kiss gave,
And kept rolling away to the sea—
So the love-stricken slave for a moment may rave,
But ere long oh! how distant he'll be?
And in change all her charming is centered—
When you step from the stream where you've bathed, 'twere a dream
To suppose't the same stream that you entered;
Each clear crystal wave just a passing kiss gave,
And kept rolling away to the sea—
So the love-stricken slave for a moment may rave,
But ere long oh! how distant he'll be?
Why—'tis only in name, you, e'en you, are the same
With the she that inspired my devotion,
Every bit of the lip that I lov'd so to sip
Has been changed in the general commotion—
Even these soft gleaming eyes that awaked my young sighs
Have been altered a thousand times over;
Why? Oh! why then complain that so short was your reign?
Must all Nature go round but your lover?
With the she that inspired my devotion,
Every bit of the lip that I lov'd so to sip
Has been changed in the general commotion—
Even these soft gleaming eyes that awaked my young sighs
Have been altered a thousand times over;
Why? Oh! why then complain that so short was your reign?
Must all Nature go round but your lover?
84
CHANT.—BY MRS. M'WHIRTER.
I wonder what the mischief was in me when a bit of my music I proffered ye!
How could any woman sing a good song when she's just parting with Morgan Odoherty?
A poor body, I think, would have more occasion for a comfortable quiet can,
To keep up her spirits in taking lave of so nate a young man—
Besides, as for me, I'm not an orator like Bushe, Plunket, Grattan, or Curran,
So I can only hum a few words to the old chant of the Powldoodies of Burran.
How could any woman sing a good song when she's just parting with Morgan Odoherty?
A poor body, I think, would have more occasion for a comfortable quiet can,
To keep up her spirits in taking lave of so nate a young man—
Besides, as for me, I'm not an orator like Bushe, Plunket, Grattan, or Curran,
So I can only hum a few words to the old chant of the Powldoodies of Burran.
Chorus
—Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran,
The green green Powldoodies of Burran,
The green Powldoodies, the clean Powldoodies,
The gaping Powldoodies of Burran.
The green green Powldoodies of Burran,
The green Powldoodies, the clean Powldoodies,
The gaping Powldoodies of Burran.
85
I remember a saying of my Lord Norbury, that excellent Judge,
Says he, never believe what a man says to ye, Molly, for believe me 'tis all fudge;
He said it sitting on the Bench before the whole Grand Jury of Tipperary,
If I had minded it, I had been the better on't, as sure as my name's Mary:
I would have paid not the smallest attention, ye good-for-nothing elf ye,
To the fine speeches that took me off my feet in the swate city Philadelphy.
Says he, never believe what a man says to ye, Molly, for believe me 'tis all fudge;
He said it sitting on the Bench before the whole Grand Jury of Tipperary,
If I had minded it, I had been the better on't, as sure as my name's Mary:
86
To the fine speeches that took me off my feet in the swate city Philadelphy.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
87
By the same rule, says my dear Mr. Bushe, one night when I was sitting beside Mausey,
“Molly, love,” says he, “if you go on at this rate, you've no idea what bad luck it will cause ye;
You may go on very merrily for a while, but you'll see what will come on't,
When to answer for all your misdeeds, at the last you are summoned;
Do you fancy a young woman can proceed in this sad lightheaded way,
And not suffer in the long run, tho' manetime she may merrily say,
“Molly, love,” says he, “if you go on at this rate, you've no idea what bad luck it will cause ye;
You may go on very merrily for a while, but you'll see what will come on't,
When to answer for all your misdeeds, at the last you are summoned;
Do you fancy a young woman can proceed in this sad lightheaded way,
And not suffer in the long run, tho' manetime she may merrily say,
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
But I'm sure there's plenty of other people that's very near as bad as me.
Yes, and I will make bould to affirm it in the very tiptopsomest degree;
Only they're rather more cunning concealing on't, tho' they meet with their fops
Every now and then, by the mass, about four o'clock in their Milliner's shops;
In our own pretty Dame street I've seen it—the fine Lady comes commonly first,
And then comes her beau on pretence of a watch-ribbon, or the like I purtest.
Yes, and I will make bould to affirm it in the very tiptopsomest degree;
Only they're rather more cunning concealing on't, tho' they meet with their fops
Every now and then, by the mass, about four o'clock in their Milliner's shops;
In our own pretty Dame street I've seen it—the fine Lady comes commonly first,
And then comes her beau on pretence of a watch-ribbon, or the like I purtest.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
But as for me, I could not withstand him, 'tis the beautiful dear Ensign I mean,
When he came into the Shining Daisy with his milkwhite smallclothes so clean,
With his epaulette shining on his shoulder, and his golden gorget at his breast,
And his long silken sash so genteely twisted many times round about his neat waist;
His black gaiters that were so tight, and reached up to a little below his knee,
And shewed so well the prettiest calf e'er an Irish lass had the good luck to see.
When he came into the Shining Daisy with his milkwhite smallclothes so clean,
With his epaulette shining on his shoulder, and his golden gorget at his breast,
And his long silken sash so genteely twisted many times round about his neat waist;
His black gaiters that were so tight, and reached up to a little below his knee,
And shewed so well the prettiest calf e'er an Irish lass had the good luck to see.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
His eyes were like a flaming coal-fire, all so black and yet so bright,
Or like a star shining clearly in the middle of the dark heaven at night,
And the white of them was not white, but a sort of charming hue,
Like a morning sky, or skimmed milk, of a delicate sweet blue;
But when he whispered sweetly, then his eyes were so soft and dim,
That it would have been a heart of brass not to have pity upon him,
Or like a star shining clearly in the middle of the dark heaven at night,
And the white of them was not white, but a sort of charming hue,
Like a morning sky, or skimmed milk, of a delicate sweet blue;
But when he whispered sweetly, then his eyes were so soft and dim,
That it would have been a heart of brass not to have pity upon him,
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c
88
And yet now you see he's left me like a pair of old boots or shoes,
And makes love to all the handsome ladies, for ne'er a one of them can refuse;
Through America and sweet Ireland, and Bath and London City,
For he must always be running after something that's new and pretty,
Playing the devil's own delights in Holland, Spain, Portugal, and France,
And here too in the cold Scotch mountains, where I've met with him by very chance.
And makes love to all the handsome ladies, for ne'er a one of them can refuse;
Through America and sweet Ireland, and Bath and London City,
For he must always be running after something that's new and pretty,
Playing the devil's own delights in Holland, Spain, Portugal, and France,
And here too in the cold Scotch mountains, where I've met with him by very chance.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
When he first ran off and deserted me, I thought my heart was plucked away,
Such a tugging in my breast, I did not sleep a wink till peep of day—
May I be a sinner if I ever bowed but for a moment my eye-lid,
Tossing round about from side to side in the middle of my bid.
One minute kicking off all the three blankets, the sheets, and the counterpane,
And then stuffing them up over my head like a body beside myself again.
Such a tugging in my breast, I did not sleep a wink till peep of day—
May I be a sinner if I ever bowed but for a moment my eye-lid,
Tossing round about from side to side in the middle of my bid.
One minute kicking off all the three blankets, the sheets, and the counterpane,
And then stuffing them up over my head like a body beside myself again.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
Says I to myself, I'll repeat over the whole of the Pater Noster, Ave-Maria, and Creed,
If I don't fall over into a doze e'er I'm done with them 'twill be a very uncommon thing indeed;
But, would you believe it? I was quite lively when I came down to the Amen,
And it was always just as bad tho' I repeated them twenty times over and over again;
I also tried counting of a thousand, but still found myself broad awake,
With a cursed pain in the fore part of my head, all for my dear sweet Ensign Odoherty's sake.
If I don't fall over into a doze e'er I'm done with them 'twill be a very uncommon thing indeed;
But, would you believe it? I was quite lively when I came down to the Amen,
And it was always just as bad tho' I repeated them twenty times over and over again;
I also tried counting of a thousand, but still found myself broad awake,
With a cursed pain in the fore part of my head, all for my dear sweet Ensign Odoherty's sake.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
But, to cut a long story short, I was in a high fever when I woke in the morning,
Whereby all women in my situation should take profit and warning;
And Doctor Oglethorpe he was sent for, and he ordered me on no account to rise,
But to lie still and have the whole of my back covered over with Spanish flies;
He also gave me leeches and salts, castor oil, and the balsam capivi,
Till I was brought down to a mere shadow, and so pale that the sight would have grieved ye.
Whereby all women in my situation should take profit and warning;
And Doctor Oglethorpe he was sent for, and he ordered me on no account to rise,
But to lie still and have the whole of my back covered over with Spanish flies;
He also gave me leeches and salts, castor oil, and the balsam capivi,
Till I was brought down to a mere shadow, and so pale that the sight would have grieved ye.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
But in the course of a few days more I began to stump a little about,
And by the blessing of air and exercise, I grew every day more and more stout;
And in a week or two I recovered my twist, and could play a capital knife and fork,
Being not in the least particular whether it was beef, veal, lamb, mutton, or pork;
But of all the things in the world, for I was always my father's own true daughter,
I liked best to dine on fried tripes, and wash it down with a little hot brandy and water.
And by the blessing of air and exercise, I grew every day more and more stout;
And in a week or two I recovered my twist, and could play a capital knife and fork,
Being not in the least particular whether it was beef, veal, lamb, mutton, or pork;
But of all the things in the world, for I was always my father's own true daughter,
I liked best to dine on fried tripes, and wash it down with a little hot brandy and water.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
If I had the least bit of genius for poems, I could make some very nice songs,
On the cruelties of some people's sweethearts, and some people's sufferings and wrongs;
For he was master, I'm sure, of my house, and there was nothing at all at all
In the whole of the Shining Daisy for which he could not just ring the bell and call;
We kept always a good larder of pigeon pyes, hung beef, ham, and cowheel,
And we would have got anything to please him that we could either beg, borrow, or steal.
On the cruelties of some people's sweethearts, and some people's sufferings and wrongs;
89
In the whole of the Shining Daisy for which he could not just ring the bell and call;
We kept always a good larder of pigeon pyes, hung beef, ham, and cowheel,
And we would have got anything to please him that we could either beg, borrow, or steal.
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
And at night when we might be taking our noggin in the little back-room,
I thought myself as sure of my charmer as if he had gone to church my bridegroom;
But I need not deep harping on that string and ripping up of the same old sore,
He went off in the twinkling of a bed-post, and I never heard tell of him no more,
So I married the great Doctor Oglethorpe, who had been my admirer all along,
And we had some scolloped Powldoodies for supper; and every crature joined in the old song,
I thought myself as sure of my charmer as if he had gone to church my bridegroom;
But I need not deep harping on that string and ripping up of the same old sore,
He went off in the twinkling of a bed-post, and I never heard tell of him no more,
So I married the great Doctor Oglethorpe, who had been my admirer all along,
And we had some scolloped Powldoodies for supper; and every crature joined in the old song,
Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran, &c., &c.
Some people eats their Powldoodies quite neat just as they came out of the sea,
But with a little black pepper and vinegar some other people's stomachs better agree;
Young ladies are very fond of oyster pates, and young gentlemen of oyster broth,
But I think I know a bit of pasture that is far better than them both:
For whenever we want to be comfortable says I to the Doctor—my dear man,
Let's have a few scolloped Powldoodies, and a bit of tripe fried in the pan,
But with a little black pepper and vinegar some other people's stomachs better agree;
Young ladies are very fond of oyster pates, and young gentlemen of oyster broth,
But I think I know a bit of pasture that is far better than them both:
For whenever we want to be comfortable says I to the Doctor—my dear man,
Let's have a few scolloped Powldoodies, and a bit of tripe fried in the pan,
Chorus
—Oh! the Powldoodies of Burran,
The green green Powldoodies of Burran,
The green Powldoodies, the clean Powldoodies,
The gaping Powldoodies of Burran.
The green green Powldoodies of Burran,
The green Powldoodies, the clean Powldoodies,
The gaping Powldoodies of Burran.
93
ODOHERTY'S GARLAND.
IN HONOR OF MRS. COOK, THE GREAT.
Let the Emerald Isle make O'Brien her boast,
And let Yorkshire be proud of her “strapping young man,”
But London, gay London, should glory the most,
She has reared Mrs. Cook, let them match her who can;
This female Goliah is thicker and higher
Than Italian Belzoni, or Highlandman Sam.
Yet the terrible creature is pretty in feature,
And her smile is as soft as a dove or a lamb.
And let Yorkshire be proud of her “strapping young man,”
But London, gay London, should glory the most,
94
This female Goliah is thicker and higher
Than Italian Belzoni, or Highlandman Sam.
Yet the terrible creature is pretty in feature,
And her smile is as soft as a dove or a lamb.
95
When she opens her eyelids she dazzles you quite
With the vast flood of splendor that flashes around;
Old Ajax, ambitious to perish in light,
In one glance of her glory perdition had found.
Both in verse and in prose, to the bud of a rose,
Sweet lips have been likened by amorous beau;
But her lips may be said to be like a rose-bed
Their fragrance so full is, so broad is their glow.
With the vast flood of splendor that flashes around;
Old Ajax, ambitious to perish in light,
In one glance of her glory perdition had found.
Both in verse and in prose, to the bud of a rose,
Sweet lips have been likened by amorous beau;
But her lips may be said to be like a rose-bed
Their fragrance so full is, so broad is their glow.
The similitudes used in king Solomon's book,
In laudation of some little Jewess of old,
If we only suppose them devised for the Cook,
Would appear the reverse of improper or bold.
There is many a tree that is shorter than she,
In particular that on which Johnston was swung,
Had the rope been about her huge arm, there's no doubt,
That the friend of the Scotsman at once had been hung,
In laudation of some little Jewess of old,
If we only suppose them devised for the Cook,
Would appear the reverse of improper or bold.
There is many a tree that is shorter than she,
In particular that on which Johnston was swung,
Had the rope been about her huge arm, there's no doubt,
That the friend of the Scotsman at once had been hung,
The cedars that grew upon Lebanon hill,
And the towers of Damascus might well be applied,
With imperfect ideas the fancy to fill,
Of the monstrous perfections of Cook's pretty bride.
Oh! if one of the name be immortal in fame,
Because round the wide globe he adventured to roam,
Mr. Cook, I don't see why yourself should not be
As illustrious as he without stirring from home!
And the towers of Damascus might well be applied,
With imperfect ideas the fancy to fill,
Of the monstrous perfections of Cook's pretty bride.
Oh! if one of the name be immortal in fame,
Because round the wide globe he adventured to roam,
Mr. Cook, I don't see why yourself should not be
As illustrious as he without stirring from home!
Quoth Odoherty.
96
THE EVE OF ST. JERRY.
[_]
[The reader will learn with astonishment that I composed the two following ballads in the fourteenth year of my age, i. e. A. D. 1780. I doubt if either Milton or Pope rivalled this precocity of genius. —M. O.]
Dick Gossip the barber arose with the cock,
And pull'd his breeches on;
Down the staircase of wood, as fast as he could,
The valiant shaver ran.
And pull'd his breeches on;
Down the staircase of wood, as fast as he could,
The valiant shaver ran.
He went not to the country forth
To shave or frizzle hair;
Nor to join in the battle to be fought
At Canterbury fair.
To shave or frizzle hair;
Nor to join in the battle to be fought
At Canterbury fair.
Yet his hat was fiercely cocked, and his razors in his pocket,
And his torturing irons he bore;
A staff of crab-tree in his hand had he,
Full five feet long and more.
And his torturing irons he bore;
A staff of crab-tree in his hand had he,
Full five feet long and more.
The barber return'd in three days space,
And blistered were his feet;
And sad and peevish were his looks,
As he turn'd the corner street.
And blistered were his feet;
And sad and peevish were his looks,
As he turn'd the corner street.
He came not from where Canterbury
Ran ankle-deep in blood;
Where butcher Jem, and his comrades grim,
The shaving tribe withstood.
Ran ankle-deep in blood;
Where butcher Jem, and his comrades grim,
The shaving tribe withstood.
Yet were his eyes bruis'd black and blue;
His cravat twisted and tore;
His razors were with gore imbued—
But it was not professional gore.
His cravat twisted and tore;
His razors were with gore imbued—
But it was not professional gore.
He halted at the painted pole,
Full loudly did he rap,
And whistled on his shaving boy,
Whose name was Johnny Strap.
Full loudly did he rap,
And whistled on his shaving boy,
Whose name was Johnny Strap.
Come hither, come hither, young tickle-beard,
And mind that you tell me true,
For these three long days that I've been away,
What did Mrs. Gossip do?
And mind that you tell me true,
97
What did Mrs. Gossip do?
When the clock struck eight, Mrs. Gossip went straight,
In spite of the pattering rain,
Without stay or stop to the butcher's shop,
That lives in Cleaver-lane.
In spite of the pattering rain,
Without stay or stop to the butcher's shop,
That lives in Cleaver-lane.
I watch'd her steps, and secret came
Where she sat upon a chair.
No person was in the butcher's shop—
The devil a soul was there.
Where she sat upon a chair.
No person was in the butcher's shop—
The devil a soul was there.
The second night I 'spy'd a light
As I went up the strand,
'Twas she who ran, with pattens on,
And a lanthern in her hand:
As I went up the strand,
'Twas she who ran, with pattens on,
And a lanthern in her hand:
She laid it down upon a bench,
And shook her wet attire;
And drew in the elbow chair, to warm
Her toes before the fire.
And shook her wet attire;
And drew in the elbow chair, to warm
Her toes before the fire.
In the twinkling of a walking stick,
A greasy butcher came,
And with a pair of bellows, he
Blew up the dying flame.
A greasy butcher came,
And with a pair of bellows, he
Blew up the dying flame.
And many a word the butcher spoke
To Mrs. Gossip there,
But the rain fell fast, and it blew such a blast,
That I could not tell what they were.
To Mrs. Gossip there,
But the rain fell fast, and it blew such a blast,
That I could not tell what they were.
The third night there the sky was fair,
There neither was wind nor rain;
And again I watch'd the secret pair
At the shop in Cleaver-lane.
There neither was wind nor rain;
And again I watch'd the secret pair
At the shop in Cleaver-lane.
And I heard her say, “Dick Gossip's away,
So we'll be blithe and merry,
And the bolts I'll undo, sweet butcher to you,
On the eve of good St. Jerry.”
So we'll be blithe and merry,
And the bolts I'll undo, sweet butcher to you,
On the eve of good St. Jerry.”
“I can not come, I must not come”—
“For shame, faint hearted snarler,
Must I then moan, and sit alone,
In Dicky Gossip's parlor.
“For shame, faint hearted snarler,
Must I then moan, and sit alone,
In Dicky Gossip's parlor.
98
“The dog shall not tear you, and Strap shall not hear you,
And blankets I'll spread on the stair;
By the blood-red sherry, and holy St. Jerry,
I conjure thee sweet butcher be there.”
And blankets I'll spread on the stair;
By the blood-red sherry, and holy St. Jerry,
I conjure thee sweet butcher be there.”
“Tho' the dog should not tear me, and Strap should not hear me.
And blankets be spread on the stair,
Yet there's Mr. Parrot, who sleeps in the garret,
To my footsteps he could swear.”—
And blankets be spread on the stair,
Yet there's Mr. Parrot, who sleeps in the garret,
To my footsteps he could swear.”—
“Fear not, Mr. Parrot, who sleeps in the garret,
For to Hampstead the way he has ta'en;
An inquest to hold, as I have been told,
On the corpse of a butcher that's slain.”
For to Hampstead the way he has ta'en;
An inquest to hold, as I have been told,
On the corpse of a butcher that's slain.”
He turned him around, and grimly he frown'd,
And he laugh'd right scornfully,
“The inquest that's held, on the man that's been killed,
May as well be held on me.
And he laugh'd right scornfully,
“The inquest that's held, on the man that's been killed,
May as well be held on me.
“At the lone midnight hour, when hobgoblins have power,
In thy chamber I'll appear;”—
With that he was gone, and your wife left alone,
And I came running here.”—
In thy chamber I'll appear;”—
With that he was gone, and your wife left alone,
And I came running here.”—
Then changed I trow, was the barber's brow,
From the chalk to the beet-root red,
“Now tell me the mien of the butcher thou'st seen,
By Mambrino I'll smite off his head.”
From the chalk to the beet-root red,
“Now tell me the mien of the butcher thou'st seen,
By Mambrino I'll smite off his head.”
99
“On the point of his nose, which was like a red rose,
Was a wart of enormous size;
And he made a great vaporing with a blue and white apron,
And red stockings roll'd up to his thighs.”
Was a wart of enormous size;
And he made a great vaporing with a blue and white apron,
And red stockings roll'd up to his thighs.”
“Thou liest, thou liest, young Johnny Strap,
It is all a fib you tell,
For the butcher was taken, as dead as bacon,
From the bottom of Carisbrook well.”
It is all a fib you tell,
For the butcher was taken, as dead as bacon,
From the bottom of Carisbrook well.”
“My master attend, and I'll be your friend,
I don't value madam a button;
But I heard Mistress say, don't leave, I pray,
Sweet Timothy Slaughter-mutton.”
I don't value madam a button;
But I heard Mistress say, don't leave, I pray,
Sweet Timothy Slaughter-mutton.”
He ope'd the shop door, the counter he jump'd o'er,
And overturned Strap,
Then bolted up the stair, where he found his lady fair,
With the Kitten on her lap.
And overturned Strap,
Then bolted up the stair, where he found his lady fair,
With the Kitten on her lap.
“Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright,—
Now hail, thou barber trim,
What news from Canterbury fight,
What news from bloody Jem?”
Now hail, thou barber trim,
What news from Canterbury fight,
What news from bloody Jem?”
“Canterbury is red with gore,
For many a barber fell;
And the mayor has charg'd us for evermore,
To watch the butcher's well.”—
For many a barber fell;
And the mayor has charg'd us for evermore,
To watch the butcher's well.”—
Mrs. Gossip blush'd, and her cheek was flush'd,
But the barber shook his head;
And having observed that the night was cold,
He tumbled into bed.
But the barber shook his head;
And having observed that the night was cold,
He tumbled into bed.
Mrs. Gossip lay and mourn'd, and Dicky toss'd and turn'd;
And he mutter'd while half asleep,
The stone is large and round, and the halter tight and sound,
And the well thirty fathoms deep.
And he mutter'd while half asleep,
The stone is large and round, and the halter tight and sound,
And the well thirty fathoms deep.
The gloomy dome of St. Paul's struck three,
The morning began to blink,
And Gossip slept, as if his wife
Had put laudanum in his drink.
The morning began to blink,
And Gossip slept, as if his wife
Had put laudanum in his drink.
100
Mrs. Gossip drew wide the curtains aside,
The candle had burn'd to the socket,
And lo! Timothy stood, all cover'd with blood,
With his right hand in his pocket.
The candle had burn'd to the socket,
And lo! Timothy stood, all cover'd with blood,
With his right hand in his pocket.
“Dear Slaughter-mutton, away,” she cried,
“I pray thee do not stop”—
“Mrs. Gossip, I know, who sleeps by thy side,
But he sleeps as sound as a top.
“I pray thee do not stop”—
“Mrs. Gossip, I know, who sleeps by thy side,
But he sleeps as sound as a top.
“Near Carisbrook well I lately fell
Beneath a barber's knife;
The coroner's inquest was held on me—
But it did not restore me to life.
Beneath a barber's knife;
The coroner's inquest was held on me—
But it did not restore me to life.
“By thy husband's hand, was I foully slain,
He threw me into the well,
And my sprite in the shop, in Cleaver-lane,
For a season is doom'd to dwell.”—
He threw me into the well,
And my sprite in the shop, in Cleaver-lane,
For a season is doom'd to dwell.”—
Love master'd fear—“What brings thee here?”
The Love-sick matron said,—
“Is thy fair carcase gone to pot?”—
The goblin shook his head.
The Love-sick matron said,—
“Is thy fair carcase gone to pot?”—
The goblin shook his head.
“I slaughter'd sheep, and slaughter'd was,
And for breaking the marriage band,
My flesh and bones go to David Jones—
But let us first shake hands.”
And for breaking the marriage band,
My flesh and bones go to David Jones—
But let us first shake hands.”
He laid his left fist, on an oaken chest,
And, as she cried—“don't burn us;”
With the other he grasp'd her by the nose,
And scorch'd her like a furnace.
And, as she cried—“don't burn us;”
With the other he grasp'd her by the nose,
And scorch'd her like a furnace.
There is a felon in Newgate jail,
Who dreads the next assize;
A woman doth dwell, in Bedlam cell,
With a patch between her eyes.
Who dreads the next assize;
A woman doth dwell, in Bedlam cell,
With a patch between her eyes.
The woman who dwells in Bedlam cell,
Whose reason is not worth a button,
Is the wife of the barber in Newgate jail,
Who slaughter'd Slaughter-mutton.
Whose reason is not worth a button,
Is the wife of the barber in Newgate jail,
Who slaughter'd Slaughter-mutton.
101
THE RIME OF THE AUNCIENT WAGGONERE.
IN FOUR PARTS.
1. Part First.
It is an auncient Waggonere,
And hee stoppeth one of nine:—
“Now wherefore dost thou grip me soe
With that horny fist of thine?”
And hee stoppeth one of nine:—
“Now wherefore dost thou grip me soe
With that horny fist of thine?”
“The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And thither I must walke;
Soe, by youre leave, I must be gone,
I have noe time for talke!”
And thither I must walke;
Soe, by youre leave, I must be gone,
I have noe time for talke!”
Hee holds him with his horny fist—
“There was a wain,” quothe hee,
“Hold offe thou raggamouffine tykke,”—
Eftsoones his fist dropped hee.
“There was a wain,” quothe hee,
“Hold offe thou raggamouffine tykke,”—
Eftsoones his fist dropped hee.
Hee satte him downe upon a stone,
With ruefulle looks of feare;
And thus began this tippyse manne,
The red nosed waggonere.
With ruefulle looks of feare;
And thus began this tippyse manne,
The red nosed waggonere.
“The waine is fulle, the horses pulle,
Merrilye did we trotte
Alonge the bridge, alonge the road,
A jolly crewe I wotte;”—
Merrilye did we trotte
Alonge the bridge, alonge the road,
A jolly crewe I wotte;”—
And here the tailore smotte his breaste,
He smelte the cabbage potte!
“The nighte was darke, like Noe's arke,
Oure waggone moved alonge;
He smelte the cabbage potte!
“The nighte was darke, like Noe's arke,
Oure waggone moved alonge;
The hail pour'd faste, loude roared the blaste,
Yet stille we moved alonge;
And sung in chorus, ‘Cease loud Borus,’
A very charminge songe.
Yet stille we moved alonge;
And sung in chorus, ‘Cease loud Borus,’
A very charminge songe.
“‘Bravoe, bravissimoe,’ I cried,
The sounde was quite elatinge;
But, in a trice, upon the ice,
We hearde the horses skaitinge.
The sounde was quite elatinge;
But, in a trice, upon the ice,
We hearde the horses skaitinge.
“The ice was here, the ice was there,
It was a dismale mattere,
To see the cargoe, one by one,
Flounderinge in the wattere!
It was a dismale mattere,
To see the cargoe, one by one,
Flounderinge in the wattere!
102
“With rout and roare, we reached the shore,
And never a soul did sinke;
But in the rivere, gone for evere,
Swum our meate and drinke.
And never a soul did sinke;
But in the rivere, gone for evere,
Swum our meate and drinke.
“At lengthe we spied a goode grey goose,
Thorough the snow it came;
And with the butte ende of my whippe,
I hailed it in Goddhis name.
Thorough the snow it came;
And with the butte ende of my whippe,
I hailed it in Goddhis name.
“It staggered as it had been drunke,
So dexterous was it hitte;
Of brokene boughs we made a fire,
Thomme Loncheone roasted itte.”—
So dexterous was it hitte;
Of brokene boughs we made a fire,
Thomme Loncheone roasted itte.”—
“Be done, thou tipsye waggonere,
“To the feaste I must awaye.”—
The waggonere seized him bye the coatte,
And forced him there to staye,
Begginge, in gentlemanlie style,
Butte halfe ane hour's delaye.
“To the feaste I must awaye.”—
The waggonere seized him bye the coatte,
And forced him there to staye,
Begginge, in gentlemanlie style,
Butte halfe ane hour's delaye.
2. Part Second.
“The crimson sunne was rising o'ere
The verge of the horizon;
Upon my worde, as faire a sunne
As ever I clapped eyes onne.
The verge of the horizon;
Upon my worde, as faire a sunne
As ever I clapped eyes onne.
“'Twill be ane comfortable thinge,”
The mutinouus crewe 'gan crye;
“'Twill be an comfortable thinge,
Within the jaile to lye;
Ah! execrable wretche,” saide they,
“Thatte caused the goose to die!
The mutinouus crewe 'gan crye;
“'Twill be an comfortable thinge,
Within the jaile to lye;
Ah! execrable wretche,” saide they,
“Thatte caused the goose to die!
“The day was drawing near itte's close,
The sunne was well nighe settinge;
When lo it seemed as iffe his face
Was veiled with fringe-warke-nettinge.
The sunne was well nighe settinge;
When lo it seemed as iffe his face
Was veiled with fringe-warke-nettinge.
“Somme saide itte was ane apple tree,
Laden with goodlye fruite,
Somme swore itte was ane foreigne birde,
Some said it was ane brute;
Alas! it was ane bumbailiffe,
Riding in pursuite!
Laden with goodlye fruite,
Somme swore itte was ane foreigne birde,
Some said it was ane brute;
Alas! it was ane bumbailiffe,
Riding in pursuite!
103
“A hue and crye sterte uppe behind,
Whilke smote oure ears like thunder,
Within waggone there was drede,
Astonishmente and wonder.
Whilke smote oure ears like thunder,
Within waggone there was drede,
Astonishmente and wonder.
“One after one, the rascalls rann,
And from the carre did jump;
One after one, one after one,
They felle with heavy thump.
And from the carre did jump;
One after one, one after one,
They felle with heavy thump.
“Six miles ane houre theye offe did scoure,
Like shippes on ane stormye ocean,
Theire garments flappinge in the winde,
With ane shorte uneasy motion.
Like shippes on ane stormye ocean,
Theire garments flappinge in the winde,
With ane shorte uneasy motion.
“Their bodies with their legs did flye,
Theye fled withe feare and glyffe;
Why star'st thoue soe?—With one goode blow,
I felled the bumbailiffe!”
Theye fled withe feare and glyffe;
Why star'st thoue soe?—With one goode blow,
I felled the bumbailiffe!”
3. Part Third.
“I feare thee, auncient waggonere,
I feare thy hornye fiste,
For itte is stained with gooses gore,
And bailiffe's blood, I wist.
I feare thy hornye fiste,
For itte is stained with gooses gore,
And bailiffe's blood, I wist.
“I fear to gette ane fisticuffe
From thy leathern knuckles brown;
With that the tailore strove to ryse—
The waggonere thrusts him down.
From thy leathern knuckles brown;
With that the tailore strove to ryse—
The waggonere thrusts him down.
“‘Thou craven, if thou mov'st a limbe,
I'll give thee cause for feare;’—
And thus went on, that tipsye man,
The red-billed waggonere.
I'll give thee cause for feare;’—
And thus went on, that tipsye man,
The red-billed waggonere.
The bumbailiffe so beautifull!
Declared itte was no joke,
For, to his knowledge, both his legs,
And fifteen ribbes were broke.
Declared itte was no joke,
For, to his knowledge, both his legs,
And fifteen ribbes were broke.
“The lighte was gone, the nighte came on,
Ane hundrede lantherns sheen,
Glimmerred upon the kinge's highwaye,
Ane lovelye sighte I ween.
Ane hundrede lantherns sheen,
Glimmerred upon the kinge's highwaye,
Ane lovelye sighte I ween.
104
“‘Is it he,’ quoth one, ‘is this the manne,
I'll laye the rascalle stiffe;’—
With cruel stroke the beak he broke
Of the harmless bumbailiffe.
I'll laye the rascalle stiffe;’—
With cruel stroke the beak he broke
Of the harmless bumbailiffe.
“The threatening of the saucye rogue
No more I coulde abide.
Advancing forthe my goode right legge,
Three paces and a stride,
I sent my lefte foot dexterously
Seven inches thro' his side.
No more I coulde abide.
Advancing forthe my goode right legge,
Three paces and a stride,
I sent my lefte foot dexterously
Seven inches thro' his side.
“Up came the seconde from the vanne;
We had scarcely fought a round,
When some one smote me from behinde,
And I fell down in a swound:
We had scarcely fought a round,
When some one smote me from behinde,
And I fell down in a swound:
“And when my head began to clear,
I heard the yemering crew—
Quoth one, ‘this man hath penance done,
And penance more shall do.’”
I heard the yemering crew—
Quoth one, ‘this man hath penance done,
And penance more shall do.’”
4. Part Fourth.
“Oh! Freedom is a glorious thing!—
And tailore, by the bye,
I'd rather in a halter swing,
Than in a dungeon lie.
And tailore, by the bye,
I'd rather in a halter swing,
Than in a dungeon lie.
“The jailore came to bring me foode,
Forget it will I never,
How he turned up the white o' his eye,
When I stuck him in the liver.
Forget it will I never,
How he turned up the white o' his eye,
When I stuck him in the liver.
“His threade of life was snapt; once more
I reached the open streete;
The people sung out ‘Gardyloo’
As I ran down the streete.
Methought the blessed air of heaven
Never smelte so sweete.
I reached the open streete;
The people sung out ‘Gardyloo’
As I ran down the streete.
Methought the blessed air of heaven
Never smelte so sweete.
“Once more upon the broad highwaye,
I walked with feare and drede;
And every fifteen steppes I tooke
I turned about my heade,
For feare the corporal of the guarde
Might close behind me trede!
I walked with feare and drede;
And every fifteen steppes I tooke
I turned about my heade,
For feare the corporal of the guarde
Might close behind me trede!
105
“Behold upon the western wave,
Setteth the broad bright sunne;
So I must onward, as I have
Full fifteen miles to runne;—
Setteth the broad bright sunne;
So I must onward, as I have
Full fifteen miles to runne;—
“And should the bailliffes hither come
To aske whilke waye I've gone,
Tell them I took the othere road,
Said hee, and trotted onne.”
To aske whilke waye I've gone,
Tell them I took the othere road,
Said hee, and trotted onne.”
The tailore rushed into the roome,
O'erturning three or foure;
Fractured his skulle against the walle,
And worde spake never more!!
O'erturning three or foure;
Fractured his skulle against the walle,
And worde spake never more!!
Morale.
Such is the fate of foolish men,The danger all may see,
Of those, who list to waggonere,
And keepe bad companye.
106
Maxims of ODoherty.
120
Maxim Twenty-second.
Come to the meeting, there's drinking and eating,
Plenty and famous, your bellies to cram;
Jupiter Ammon, with gills red as salmon,
Twists round his eyebrows the horns of a ram.
Plenty and famous, your bellies to cram;
Jupiter Ammon, with gills red as salmon,
Twists round his eyebrows the horns of a ram.
Juno the she-cock has harnessed her peacock,
Warming the way with a drop of a dram;
Phœbus Apollo in order will follow,
Lighting the road with his old patent flam.
Warming the way with a drop of a dram;
Phœbus Apollo in order will follow,
Lighting the road with his old patent flam.
Cuckoldy Vulcan, dispatching a full can,
Limps to the banquet on tottering ham;
Venus her sparrows, and Cupid his arrows,
Sport on th' occasion—fine infant and dam.
Limps to the banquet on tottering ham;
Venus her sparrows, and Cupid his arrows,
Sport on th' occasion—fine infant and dam.
Mars, in full armour, to follow his charmer,
Looks as ferocious as Highlander Sam;
Jocus and Comus ride tandem with Momus,
Cheering the road with gibe, banter, and bam.
Looks as ferocious as Highlander Sam;
Jocus and Comus ride tandem with Momus,
Cheering the road with gibe, banter, and bam.
Madam Latona, the old Roba Bona,
Simpering as mild as a fawn or a lamb,
Drives with Aurora the red-nosed Signora,
With fingers as rosy as raspberry jam.
Simpering as mild as a fawn or a lamb,
Drives with Aurora the red-nosed Signora,
With fingers as rosy as raspberry jam.
138
Maxim Seventy-first.
John Brougham for bordeaux,
Robert Cockburn for champagne,
John Ferguson for hocks,
Cay for Sherris sack of Spain.
Robert Cockburn for champagne,
John Ferguson for hocks,
Cay for Sherris sack of Spain.
Phin for rod, pirn, and hooks,
Dunn for congé and salaam,
Bailie Blackwood for books,
Macvey Napier for balaam.
Dunn for congé and salaam,
Bailie Blackwood for books,
Macvey Napier for balaam.
Sir Walter for fables,
Peter Robertson for speeches,
Mr. Trotter for tables,
Mr. Bridges for breeches.
Peter Robertson for speeches,
Mr. Trotter for tables,
Mr. Bridges for breeches.
Gall for coaches and gigs,
Steele for ices and jam,
Mr. Urquhart for wigs,
Mr. Jeffrey for bam.
Steele for ices and jam,
Mr. Urquhart for wigs,
Mr. Jeffrey for bam.
Lord Morton for the zebra,
Billy Allan for the brush,
Johnny Leslie for the Hebrew,
And myself for a blush.
Billy Allan for the brush,
Johnny Leslie for the Hebrew,
And myself for a blush.
179
DON JUAN UNREAD.
BYRON.
Of Corinth Castle we had read
The amazing Siege unravelled,
Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour,
And with Childe Harold travelled;
And so we followed cloven-foot
As faithfully as any,
Until he cried, “Come, turn aside
And read of Don Giovanni.”
The amazing Siege unravelled,
Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour,
And with Childe Harold travelled;
And so we followed cloven-foot
As faithfully as any,
Until he cried, “Come, turn aside
And read of Don Giovanni.”
“Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House,
Who have been lying, prating,
Read Don Giovanni, 'tis their own,
A child of their creating!
On jests profane they love to feed,
And there they are—and many;
But we, who link not with the crew,
Regard not Don Giovanni.
Who have been lying, prating,
Read Don Giovanni, 'tis their own,
A child of their creating!
On jests profane they love to feed,
And there they are—and many;
But we, who link not with the crew,
Regard not Don Giovanni.
180
“There's Godwin's daughter, Shelley's wife,
A writing fearful stories;
There's Hazlitt, who, with Hunt and Keats
Brays forth in Cockney chorus;
There's pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad
Who sings of Rose and Fanny;
Why throw away these wits so gay
To take up Don Giovanni.
A writing fearful stories;
There's Hazlitt, who, with Hunt and Keats
Brays forth in Cockney chorus;
There's pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad
Who sings of Rose and Fanny;
Why throw away these wits so gay
To take up Don Giovanni.
“What's Juan but a shameless tale,
That bursts all rules asunder?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
His lordship look'd not canny;
And took a pinch of snuff, to think
I flouted Don Giovanni.
That bursts all rules asunder?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
His lordship look'd not canny;
And took a pinch of snuff, to think
I flouted Don Giovanni.
“O! rich,” said I, “are Juan's rhymes,
And warm its verse is flowing!
Fair crops of Blasphemy it bears,
But we will leave them growing.
In Pindar's strain, in prose of Paine,
And many another Zanny,
As gross, we read, so where's the need,
To wade through Don Giovanni.
And warm its verse is flowing!
Fair crops of Blasphemy it bears,
But we will leave them growing.
In Pindar's strain, in prose of Paine,
181
As gross, we read, so where's the need,
To wade through Don Giovanni.
“Let Colburn's town-bred cattle snuff
The filths of Lady Morgan,
Let Maturin to amorous themes
Attune his barrel organ!
We will not read them, will not hear
The parson or the granny;
And, I dare say, as bad as they,
Or worse, is Don Giovanni.
The filths of Lady Morgan,
Let Maturin to amorous themes
Attune his barrel organ!
We will not read them, will not hear
The parson or the granny;
And, I dare say, as bad as they,
Or worse, is Don Giovanni.
“Be Juan then unseen, unknown!
It must, or we may rue it;
We may have virtue of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured faith of days long past,
We still shall prize o'er any;
And we shall grieve to hear the gibes
Of scoffing Don Giovanni.
It must, or we may rue it;
We may have virtue of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured faith of days long past,
We still shall prize o'er any;
And we shall grieve to hear the gibes
Of scoffing Don Giovanni.
“When Whigs with freezing rule shall come,
And piety seem folly;
When Cam and Isis curbed by Brougham,
Shall wander melancholy;
When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt,
And all the swinish many,
Shall rough-shod ride o'er church and state,
Then hey! for Don Giovanni.”
And piety seem folly;
182
Shall wander melancholy;
When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt,
And all the swinish many,
Shall rough-shod ride o'er church and state,
Then hey! for Don Giovanni.”
183
The Irishman and the Lady.
I
There was a lady lived at Leith,A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman.
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman—
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ramping, roaring Irishman.
II
His face was no ways beautiful,For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost doubled a yard across.
O, the lump of an Irishman,
The whisky-devouring Irishman—
The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting, Irishman.
III
One of his eyes was bottle-green,And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear,
184
The rattling, battling Irishman—
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.
IV
He took so much of Lundy-Foot,That he used to snort and snuffle—O;
And in shape and size, the fellow's neck,
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
O, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman—
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.
V
His name was a terrible name, indeed,Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,
He'd not rest till he filled it full again.
The boozing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated Irishman—
The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.
VI
This was the lad the lady loved,Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.
O, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman—
The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bother'd, I'm sure, by this Irishman.
185
Here Let me Dine.
'Tis not when on turtle and venison dining,
And sipping Tokay at the cost of his Grace;
Like the plate on his sideboard, I'm set to be shining—
(So nearly a mug may resemble a face.)
This is not the dinner for me—a poor sinner;
Where I'm bound to show off, and throw pearls before swine.
Give me turnips and mutton,—(I ne'er was a glutton)—
Good friends and good liquor—and here let me dine.
And sipping Tokay at the cost of his Grace;
Like the plate on his sideboard, I'm set to be shining—
(So nearly a mug may resemble a face.)
This is not the dinner for me—a poor sinner;
Where I'm bound to show off, and throw pearls before swine.
Give me turnips and mutton,—(I ne'er was a glutton)—
Good friends and good liquor—and here let me dine.
Your critic shows off, with his snatches and tastes
Of odd trash from Reviews, and odd sorts of odd wine;
Half a glass—half a joke—from the Publisher's stock
Of Balaam and Hock, are but trash, I opine.
Convérsazioni—are not for my money,
Where Blue Stockings prate about Wylie and Pen;
I'd rather get tipsy with ipsissimi ipsi—
Plain women must yield to plain sense and plain men.
Of odd trash from Reviews, and odd sorts of odd wine;
Half a glass—half a joke—from the Publisher's stock
Of Balaam and Hock, are but trash, I opine.
Convérsazioni—are not for my money,
Where Blue Stockings prate about Wylie and Pen;
I'd rather get tipsy with ipsissimi ipsi—
Plain women must yield to plain sense and plain men.
Your dowager gives you good dinners, 'tis true;
She shines in liqueurs, and her Sherry's antique;
But then you must swear by her eye's lovely blue,
And adore the bright bloom that is laid on her cheek.
Blue eyes in young faces are quite in their places;
One praises and gazes with boundless delight
And juvenile roses ne'er trespass on noses,
As the custom of those is, I've cut for to-night.
She shines in liqueurs, and her Sherry's antique;
But then you must swear by her eye's lovely blue,
And adore the bright bloom that is laid on her cheek.
Blue eyes in young faces are quite in their places;
One praises and gazes with boundless delight
And juvenile roses ne'er trespass on noses,
As the custom of those is, I've cut for to-night.
Your colonels talk but of a siege or a battle—
Your merchants of naught but the course of exchange—
Your squires, of their hounds, of the corn-bill or cattle—
Your doctors their cases and cures will arrange—
Your lawyer's confounding, on multiple poinding—
Your artists are great on expression and tone—
Parsons sport Moderators and Church-procurators,
Each set is the devil when feeding alone.
Your merchants of naught but the course of exchange—
Your squires, of their hounds, of the corn-bill or cattle—
Your doctors their cases and cures will arrange—
Your lawyer's confounding, on multiple poinding—
Your artists are great on expression and tone—
Parsons sport Moderators and Church-procurators,
Each set is the devil when feeding alone.
But here, where all sets and all topics are mingled—
The hero—the dentist—the parson—the squire—
No one branch of blarney's selected or singled,—
But our wine and our wit each discussion inspire;
Where the pun and the glass simultaneously pass;
Where each song seems quite heavenly, each bumper divine;
Where there's drinking and smoking, and quizzing and joking,
But nothing provoking—Here! Here! let me dine.
The hero—the dentist—the parson—the squire—
No one branch of blarney's selected or singled,—
But our wine and our wit each discussion inspire;
186
Where each song seems quite heavenly, each bumper divine;
Where there's drinking and smoking, and quizzing and joking,
But nothing provoking—Here! Here! let me dine.
217
[Oh! lovely Polly Savage]
Oh! lovely Polly Savage,
O! charming Polly Savage,
Your eye beats Day and Martin,
Your cheek is like red cabbage.
O! charming Polly Savage,
Your eye beats Day and Martin,
Your cheek is like red cabbage.
As I was going down the Strand
It smote my heart with wonder,
To see the lovely damsel,
A-sitting at a vinder.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
It smote my heart with wonder,
To see the lovely damsel,
A-sitting at a vinder.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
Oh! once I loved another girl,
Her name it was Maria;
But, Polly dear, my love for you
Is forty-five times higher.
O! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
Her name it was Maria;
But, Polly dear, my love for you
Is forty-five times higher.
O! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
We'll take a shop in Chicken Lane,
And I will stand prepared,
To sell fat bacon by the pound,
And butter by the yard.
O! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
And I will stand prepared,
To sell fat bacon by the pound,
And butter by the yard.
O! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
And when at five o'clock, my love,
We sit us down to dine,
How I will toast your darling health,
In draughts of currant vine.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
We sit us down to dine,
How I will toast your darling health,
In draughts of currant vine.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
Oh then our little son shall be
As wanton as a spaniel,
Him that we mean to christen'd be,
Jacques Timothy Nathaniel.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
As wanton as a spaniel,
Him that we mean to christen'd be,
Jacques Timothy Nathaniel.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
And if we have a little girl,
I'm sure you wont be sorry
To hear me call the pretty elf
Euphemiar Helen Laurar.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
I'm sure you wont be sorry
To hear me call the pretty elf
Euphemiar Helen Laurar.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage, &c.
Then fare-thee-well a little space,
My heart can never falter,
And next time when I see your face,
'Twill be at Hymen's haltar.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage &c.
My heart can never falter,
And next time when I see your face,
'Twill be at Hymen's haltar.
Oh! lovely Polly Savage &c.
218
THE SOMNAMBULATORY BUTCHER.—An Episode.
Reflections—birth,—parentage,—boyish tricks,—education,—change of dress,—apprenticeship,—bladders and Dr. Lavement,—bad habits,—ditto cured by his mother,—caution,—and moral.
Men's legs, if man may trust the common talk,
Are engines put in motion when men walk;
But when we cross our knees, and take a chair
Beside the fire, they're not in motion there:
So this we learn by wisdom, art, and skill,
That legs are made to stir, or to sit still.
Yet sometimes I have heard, that when the head
In woollen cap lay snoring on the bed,
The legs, without the sanction of the brain,
Were fond to wander on the midnight plain,
Pursue, mid darkness, tasks of common day,
Yet come, as will'd Caprice, unharm'd away;
Which to illustrate, let the reader bend
A willing ear, and list his warning friend.
Are engines put in motion when men walk;
But when we cross our knees, and take a chair
Beside the fire, they're not in motion there:
So this we learn by wisdom, art, and skill,
That legs are made to stir, or to sit still.
Yet sometimes I have heard, that when the head
In woollen cap lay snoring on the bed,
The legs, without the sanction of the brain,
Were fond to wander on the midnight plain,
Pursue, mid darkness, tasks of common day,
Yet come, as will'd Caprice, unharm'd away;
Which to illustrate, let the reader bend
A willing ear, and list his warning friend.
James Neckum Theodore Emmanuel Reid,
Was meanly born, and was ignobly bred,
Lived upon pottage, slept within a shed;
His mother,—But it were in vain to look—
Her's was no marriage by the session book;
His mother, fool, had never taken pains
To gird her neck with matrimonial chains,
And he, her leman, seeing what would be,
Turn'd a blue-neck'd marine, and cross'd the sea;
So, in neglect and wrath the child was born,
While neighbours chuckled with their looks of scorn;
But fast he throve, and fat he grew, and that
Was felt most keenly by the tortured cat,
Whose ears he pinch'd, whose tail he drew, until
'Twas forced, when fairly vanquish'd, to lie still;
The chickens too, no sinecure of life
Had with the boy, who pull'd their necks in strife,
Till from their sockets started their black eyes,
And died their vanish'd voice in feeble cries.
Was meanly born, and was ignobly bred,
Lived upon pottage, slept within a shed;
His mother,—But it were in vain to look—
Her's was no marriage by the session book;
His mother, fool, had never taken pains
To gird her neck with matrimonial chains,
219
Turn'd a blue-neck'd marine, and cross'd the sea;
So, in neglect and wrath the child was born,
While neighbours chuckled with their looks of scorn;
But fast he throve, and fat he grew, and that
Was felt most keenly by the tortured cat,
Whose ears he pinch'd, whose tail he drew, until
'Twas forced, when fairly vanquish'd, to lie still;
The chickens too, no sinecure of life
Had with the boy, who pull'd their necks in strife,
Till from their sockets started their black eyes,
And died their vanish'd voice in feeble cries.
At length a cap upon his head was braced,
Shoes shod his feet, and breeches girt his waist;
Tall as a leek he grew, his hair was long,
And through its folds the wild winds sang a song;
From mother's clutches oft would he elope,
And little knew his morning face of soap;
Till, having spent the morn in game and play
With comrades dirty, frolicsome, and gay,
As duly as the village clock struck two,
As duly parted he from ragged crew,
And homewards wended, fast and nothing loth,
To dip his whispers in his mother's broth.
Shoes shod his feet, and breeches girt his waist;
Tall as a leek he grew, his hair was long,
And through its folds the wild winds sang a song;
From mother's clutches oft would he elope,
And little knew his morning face of soap;
Till, having spent the morn in game and play
With comrades dirty, frolicsome, and gay,
As duly as the village clock struck two,
As duly parted he from ragged crew,
And homewards wended, fast and nothing loth,
To dip his whispers in his mother's broth.
The boy grew strong; the master of the school
Took him in charge, and with a birch did rule;
Full long and oft he blubber'd; but, at length,
Within a week he learned to letter tenth;
And ere six moons had waxed, and waned, and set,
He had reached z, and knew his alphabet.
Took him in charge, and with a birch did rule;
Full long and oft he blubber'd; but, at length,
Within a week he learned to letter tenth;
And ere six moons had waxed, and waned, and set,
He had reached z, and knew his alphabet.
His education finish'd, choice he made
Of a most lucrative and wholesome trade;
The leathern cap was now dismiss'd; and red,
Yea fiery, glow'd the cowl upon his head:
And, like a cherry dangling from the crown,
A neat wool tassel in the midst hung down;
Around his waist, with black tape girded tight,
Was tied a worsted apron, blue and white;
His Shetland stockings, mocking winter's cold,
Despising garters, up his thighs were roll'd,
And, by his side, horn-handled steels, and knives,
Gleam'd from his pouch, and thirsted for sheep's lives.
For, dexterous, he could split dead cows in halves,
And, though a calf himself, he slaughter'd calves.
But brisker look'd the youth, and nothing sadder,
For of each mother's son he got the bladder,
And straight to Galen's-head in joy he bore it,
Where Dr. Lavement gave a penny for it.
Of a most lucrative and wholesome trade;
The leathern cap was now dismiss'd; and red,
Yea fiery, glow'd the cowl upon his head:
And, like a cherry dangling from the crown,
A neat wool tassel in the midst hung down;
Around his waist, with black tape girded tight,
Was tied a worsted apron, blue and white;
His Shetland stockings, mocking winter's cold,
Despising garters, up his thighs were roll'd,
And, by his side, horn-handled steels, and knives,
Gleam'd from his pouch, and thirsted for sheep's lives.
For, dexterous, he could split dead cows in halves,
And, though a calf himself, he slaughter'd calves.
220
For of each mother's son he got the bladder,
And straight to Galen's-head in joy he bore it,
Where Dr. Lavement gave a penny for it.
But he had failings as I said before,
So, duly as his nose began to snore,
His legs ran with his body to the door:
And forth he used to roam, with sidelong neck,
To—as the Scot's folks term it—lift the sneck.
All in his shirt and woollen cap he strayed,
Silent, though dreaming; cold, but undismay'd.
The moon was shining 'mid the depth of Heaven,
And from the chill north, fleecy clouds were driven
Athwart its silver aspect, till they grew
Dimmer, and dimmer, in the distant blue;
The trees were rustling loud; nor moon, nor trees,
Nor cloud, could on his dreaming frenzy seize,
But, walking with closed eyes across the street,
He lifted handsomely his unshod feet,
Till nought, at length, his wandering ankles propt,
And head and heels into the pond he dropt.
So, duly as his nose began to snore,
His legs ran with his body to the door:
And forth he used to roam, with sidelong neck,
To—as the Scot's folks term it—lift the sneck.
All in his shirt and woollen cap he strayed,
Silent, though dreaming; cold, but undismay'd.
The moon was shining 'mid the depth of Heaven,
And from the chill north, fleecy clouds were driven
Athwart its silver aspect, till they grew
Dimmer, and dimmer, in the distant blue;
The trees were rustling loud; nor moon, nor trees,
Nor cloud, could on his dreaming frenzy seize,
But, walking with closed eyes across the street,
He lifted handsomely his unshod feet,
Till nought, at length, his wandering ankles propt,
And head and heels into the pond he dropt.
Then rose the loud lament; the earth and skies
Rung with his shouts, and echoed with his cries;
The neighbours, in their night-caps, throng'd around,
Call'd forth in marching order at the sound;
They hauled young Neckum out, a blanket roll'd
Around his limbs with comfortable fold,
Hurried him home, and told him, cursing deep,
“That if again with cries he broke their sleep,
Him they would change into a wandering ghost,
Draw from the pond, but hang him on a post.”
Rung with his shouts, and echoed with his cries;
The neighbours, in their night-caps, throng'd around,
Call'd forth in marching order at the sound;
They hauled young Neckum out, a blanket roll'd
Around his limbs with comfortable fold,
Hurried him home, and told him, cursing deep,
“That if again with cries he broke their sleep,
Him they would change into a wandering ghost,
Draw from the pond, but hang him on a post.”
Oh! reader, learn this truth most firm and sure,
That vicious practices are hard to cure;
That error girds up with a serpent fold,
Hangs on the youth, but clings about the old.—
Night after night, if rainy, cold, or fair,
Forth went our hero, just to take the air;
Ladies were terrified, and, fainting, cried,
A ghost in white had wander'd by their side!
The soldier home his quaking path pursued,
With hair on end, gun cock'd, and bayonet screw'd
And frightful children run to bed in fear,
When mothers said the ghost in white was near!
That vicious practices are hard to cure;
That error girds up with a serpent fold,
Hangs on the youth, but clings about the old.—
Night after night, if rainy, cold, or fair,
Forth went our hero, just to take the air;
Ladies were terrified, and, fainting, cried,
A ghost in white had wander'd by their side!
The soldier home his quaking path pursued,
With hair on end, gun cock'd, and bayonet screw'd
And frightful children run to bed in fear,
When mothers said the ghost in white was near!
221
'Twas a hard case, but Theodore's mother quick
Fell on a scheme to cure him of the trick;
Hard by his bed a washing-tub she placed,
So, when he rose, it washed him to the waist;
And loud he roar'd,—while startled at the sound,
Old women bolted from their beds around—
“Save, save a wandering sinner, or he's drown'd!!!”
Fell on a scheme to cure him of the trick;
Hard by his bed a washing-tub she placed,
So, when he rose, it washed him to the waist;
And loud he roar'd,—while startled at the sound,
Old women bolted from their beds around—
“Save, save a wandering sinner, or he's drown'd!!!”
He rose no more, as I'm informed in sleep,
But duly fell'd down cows, and slaughter'd sheep,
Took to himself a wife, a pretty wench,
Sold beef by pounds, and cow-heel on a bench;
In ten years had seven boys, and five fair girls,
With cheeks like roses, and with teeth like pearls
Lay still in bed like any decent man,
Pursued through life a staid and honest plan,
And lived beloved, while honours thicken'd o'er him,
Justice of Peace, and Custos Rotulorum.
But duly fell'd down cows, and slaughter'd sheep,
Took to himself a wife, a pretty wench,
Sold beef by pounds, and cow-heel on a bench;
In ten years had seven boys, and five fair girls,
With cheeks like roses, and with teeth like pearls
Lay still in bed like any decent man,
Pursued through life a staid and honest plan,
And lived beloved, while honours thicken'd o'er him,
Justice of Peace, and Custos Rotulorum.
So all my readers from this tale may learn,
The right way from the wrong way to discern;
Never by dreams and nonsense to be led,
Walk when they wake, and slumber when in bed!
The right way from the wrong way to discern;
Never by dreams and nonsense to be led,
Walk when they wake, and slumber when in bed!
222
AILIE MUSHAT'S CAIRN.
A Vision-like remembrance of a Vision.
The night was dark; not a star was view'd
Mid the dim, and cloudy solitude;
I listen'd to the watchman's cry,
And to the midnight breeze, that sung
Round the ruins of St. Anthony,
With dismal, and unearthly tongue:
I scarcely felt the path I trode;
And I durst not linger to look behind,
For I knew that spirits were abroad,
And heard their shrieks on the passing wind;
When lo! a spectacle of dread and awe
With trembling knees, and stiffening hair I saw!
Mid the dim, and cloudy solitude;
I listen'd to the watchman's cry,
And to the midnight breeze, that sung
Round the ruins of St. Anthony,
With dismal, and unearthly tongue:
I scarcely felt the path I trode;
And I durst not linger to look behind,
For I knew that spirits were abroad,
And heard their shrieks on the passing wind;
When lo! a spectacle of dread and awe
With trembling knees, and stiffening hair I saw!
A grave-light spread its flames of blue,
Its flames of blue and lurid red,
And, in the midst, a hellish crew
Were seated round the stony bed
Of one, whom Murder robb'd of life!—
I saw the hand that held the knife,
It was her husband's hand, and yet
With the life-gore the blade was wet,
Dripping like a fiery sheath,
On the mossy cairn beneath!
The vision changed; and, on the stones,
With visage savage, fierce, and wild,
Above the grave that held her bones,
The ghost of Ailie Mushat smiled;
It was a sight of dread and fear—
A chequered napkin bound her head,
Her throat was cut from ear to ear,
Her hands and breast were spotted red;
She strove to speak, but from the wound
Her breath came out with a broken sound!
Its flames of blue and lurid red,
And, in the midst, a hellish crew
Were seated round the stony bed
223
I saw the hand that held the knife,
It was her husband's hand, and yet
With the life-gore the blade was wet,
Dripping like a fiery sheath,
On the mossy cairn beneath!
The vision changed; and, on the stones,
With visage savage, fierce, and wild,
Above the grave that held her bones,
The ghost of Ailie Mushat smiled;
It was a sight of dread and fear—
A chequered napkin bound her head,
Her throat was cut from ear to ear,
Her hands and breast were spotted red;
She strove to speak, but from the wound
Her breath came out with a broken sound!
I started! for she strove to rise,
And pierced me with her bloodshot eyes;
She strove to rise, but fast I drew
Upon the grass a circle round;
I said a prayer, and she withdrew
Slowly within the stony mound—
And trembling, and alone I stood,
In the depth of the midnight solitude.
And pierced me with her bloodshot eyes;
She strove to rise, but fast I drew
Upon the grass a circle round;
I said a prayer, and she withdrew
Slowly within the stony mound—
And trembling, and alone I stood,
In the depth of the midnight solitude.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF YAHMASSEERO, COUNCILLOR OF STATE.
Free Translation.
I
Pray, have you heard the news?One of the footguards drew
224
His anger to assuage,
A councillor he slew!
II
Yahmahsseero's robeIs stained with fiery gore,
And each that doth him meet,
Calls him upon the street,
The crimson councillor.
III
The current to the eastBy Sahnno, little town,
Hath overflown, and burst the dike
With fury, and the castle, like
A fool, hath fallen down.
IV
Who has felled the cherry trees?And who has felled the plum?
Trees planted in neat boxes,
And anything but hoaxes
For odoriferous gum.
225
V
A councillor hath been knockedFrom off his legs,—most true;
If ever such a thing was heard,
It may most safely be averr'd
That it hath been—adieu!
STANZAS.
Oh mine be the shade, &c.
Oh! mine be the shade where no eye may discover,
Where in silence and sorrow alone I may dwell;
Give scorn to the maid, who is false to her lover;
A tear unto her, who has loved but too well!
Alas for the heart, when affection forsaking
The vows, it has pledged, and has cherish'd through years;
For no refuge remains to that lone heart but breaking,
The silence of grief, and the solace of tears!
Where in silence and sorrow alone I may dwell;
Give scorn to the maid, who is false to her lover;
A tear unto her, who has loved but too well!
226
The vows, it has pledged, and has cherish'd through years;
For no refuge remains to that lone heart but breaking,
The silence of grief, and the solace of tears!
Farewell the bright prospects that once could allure me
To think this poor earth was a promise of Heaven;
Since he, who once doated, no more can endure me,
Too much with the darkness of fate I have striven;
The flowers with their odours—the birds with their singing—
The beauties of earth, and the glories of sky,
Dear—sad recollections are constantly bringing—
And all that remains upon earth is—to die!!
To think this poor earth was a promise of Heaven;
Since he, who once doated, no more can endure me,
Too much with the darkness of fate I have striven;
The flowers with their odours—the birds with their singing—
The beauties of earth, and the glories of sky,
Dear—sad recollections are constantly bringing—
And all that remains upon earth is—to die!!
232
[The hounds in the kennel are yelling loud]
The hounds in the kennel are yelling loud,
The hawks are boune for flight;
For the sun hath burst from his eastern shroud,
And the sky is clear, without a cloud,
And the steed for the chase is dight:
The merry huntsmen, up in the morn,
Crack the long whip, and wind the horn.
The hawks are boune for flight;
233
And the sky is clear, without a cloud,
And the steed for the chase is dight:
The merry huntsmen, up in the morn,
Crack the long whip, and wind the horn.
Lord Timothy rubbed his eyes, and rose
When he heard the merry crew;
He scarce took space to don his clothes,
And his night-cap quick he threw
Back on the pillow, and down the stair,
Disdaining brush or comb for hair,
With lightning speed he flew;
And in the twinkling of a fan,
With frock and cap, the gallant man,
Caparison'd all spick and span,
Was with the waiting crew.
Sir Abraham rode his bonny gray;
Sir Anthony his black;
Lord Hector hath mounted his sprightly bay;
Lord Tom, Lord Jack, and all are away;
Curvet, and demivolte, and neigh,
Mark out their bold and brisk array,
With buckskins bright, and bonnets gay,
And bugles at each back.
When he heard the merry crew;
He scarce took space to don his clothes,
And his night-cap quick he threw
Back on the pillow, and down the stair,
Disdaining brush or comb for hair,
With lightning speed he flew;
And in the twinkling of a fan,
With frock and cap, the gallant man,
Caparison'd all spick and span,
Was with the waiting crew.
Sir Abraham rode his bonny gray;
Sir Anthony his black;
Lord Hector hath mounted his sprightly bay;
Lord Tom, Lord Jack, and all are away;
Curvet, and demivolte, and neigh,
Mark out their bold and brisk array,
With buckskins bright, and bonnets gay,
And bugles at each back.
They had hardly ridden a mile, a mile,
A mile but barely ten,
As each after each they leaped a stile,
When their heart play'd pit-a-pat the while,
To see a troop of armed men,
A troop of gallant men at drill,
With well soap'd locks, and stiffen'd frill;
Each in his grasp held spear or sword,
Ready to murder at a word,
And ghastly was each warrior's smile,
Beneath his barred aventayle;
Buff belts were girt around each waist;
Steel cuisses round each thigh were braced;
Around each knee were brazen buckles;
And iron greaves to save their knuckles;
High o'er each tin-bright helmet shone
The casque, and dancing morion,
Which reach'd to where the tailor sets,
On shoulder, woollen epaulets;
Their blades were of Toledo steel,
Ferarra, or Damascus real;
Yea! human eye did never see,
Through all the days of chivalry,
Men more bedight from head to heel, &c.
A mile but barely ten,
As each after each they leaped a stile,
When their heart play'd pit-a-pat the while,
To see a troop of armed men,
A troop of gallant men at drill,
With well soap'd locks, and stiffen'd frill;
Each in his grasp held spear or sword,
Ready to murder at a word,
And ghastly was each warrior's smile,
Beneath his barred aventayle;
Buff belts were girt around each waist;
Steel cuisses round each thigh were braced;
Around each knee were brazen buckles;
And iron greaves to save their knuckles;
High o'er each tin-bright helmet shone
The casque, and dancing morion,
Which reach'd to where the tailor sets,
On shoulder, woollen epaulets;
Their blades were of Toledo steel,
Ferarra, or Damascus real;
234
Through all the days of chivalry,
Men more bedight from head to heel, &c.
Lady Alice she sits in the turret tower,
A-combing her raven hair;
The clock hath tolled the vesper hour,
Already the shadows of evening lower
To veil the landscape fair.
To the jetty fringe of her piercing eye
She raised her opera glass,
For she was anxious to espy
If her worthy knight should pass.—
“Lo! yonder he comes,”—she sigh'd and said,
Then with a rueful shake of head—
“Shall I my husband ne'er discover—
'Tis but the white cow eating clover!”
She looked again,—“Sure yon is he,
That gallops so fast along the lea!
Alas! 'tis only a chestnut tree!!
Standing as still as still can be!!!”
—“Come hither, come hither, my little foot page,
And dance, my anguish to assuage;
And be it jig, or waltz, or reel,
I care not, so it doth conceal
The ghosts, that of a thousand dies,
Float evermore before mine eyes;
And I, to make thee foot it gay,
With nimble finger, by my fay,
Upon the tambourine will play!” &c.
A-combing her raven hair;
The clock hath tolled the vesper hour,
Already the shadows of evening lower
To veil the landscape fair.
To the jetty fringe of her piercing eye
She raised her opera glass,
For she was anxious to espy
If her worthy knight should pass.—
“Lo! yonder he comes,”—she sigh'd and said,
Then with a rueful shake of head—
“Shall I my husband ne'er discover—
'Tis but the white cow eating clover!”
She looked again,—“Sure yon is he,
That gallops so fast along the lea!
Alas! 'tis only a chestnut tree!!
Standing as still as still can be!!!”
—“Come hither, come hither, my little foot page,
And dance, my anguish to assuage;
And be it jig, or waltz, or reel,
I care not, so it doth conceal
The ghosts, that of a thousand dies,
Float evermore before mine eyes;
And I, to make thee foot it gay,
With nimble finger, by my fay,
Upon the tambourine will play!” &c.
235
FRAGMENT OF A VISION.
A dandy, on a velocipede,I saw in a vision sweet,
Along the highway making speed,
With his alternate feet.
Of a bright and celestial hue
Gleam'd beauteously his blue surtout;
While ivory buttons, in a row,
Show'd like the winter's cavern'd snow,
Which the breezy North
Drives sweeping forth,
To lodge in the cave below:
Ontario's beaver, without demur,
To form his hat did lend its fur:
His frill was of the cambric fine,
And his neckcloth starch'd, and aquiline;
And oh, the eye with pleasure dwells
On his white jean indescribables;
And he throws the locks from his forehead fair,
And he pants, and pants, and pants for air;
What is the reason I cannot tell,—
There is a cause—I know it well;
Too firmly bound—too tightly braced,
The corsets grasp his spider waist,
Till his coat tails are made to fly
Even from the back they glorify.
Look again, he is not there—
Vanish'd into the misty air!
Look again!—do ye see him yet?
Ah no! the bailiff hath seized him for debt;
And, to and fro, like a restless ghost,
When peace within the grave is lost,
He paces as far, as far he should,
Within the bounds of Holyrood!
236
THE GALIONGEE.
A Fragment of a Turkish Tale.
[_]
Advertisement.—The Author of this tale begs to inform the public, that the scattered fragments which it presents were collected from an improvisatore, who recited during the time that the author drank his fifth cup of Mocha with that civilest of all gentlemen, Ali Pacha.
The Pacha sat in his divan,
With silver-sheathed ataghan;
And call'd to him a Galiongee,
Come lately from the Euxine Sea
To Stamboul; chains were on his feet,
And fetters on his hands were seen,
Because he was a Nazarene:
When, duly making reverence meet,
With haughty glance on that divan,
And curling lip, he thus began:
With silver-sheathed ataghan;
And call'd to him a Galiongee,
Come lately from the Euxine Sea
To Stamboul; chains were on his feet,
And fetters on his hands were seen,
Because he was a Nazarene:
When, duly making reverence meet,
With haughty glance on that divan,
And curling lip, he thus began:
“By broad Phingari's silver light,
When sailing at the noon of night,
Bismillah! whom did we descry
But dark corsairs, who, bent on spoil,
Athwart the deep sea ever toil!—
We know their blood-red flags on high:
The Capitan he call'd, belike,
With gesture proud, to bid us strike,
And told his Sonbachis to spare
Of not one scalp a single hair,
Though garbs of green showed Emirs there!
It boots not, Pacha, to relate
What souls were sent to Eblis throne,
How Azrael's arrows scatter'd fate,
How wild, wet, wearied, and alone,
When all my crew were drench'd in blood,
Or floated lifeless on the flood,
I fought, unawed, nor e'er thought I
To shout ‘Amaun,’ the craven's cry.—
I took my handkerchief to wipe
My burning brow, and then I took,
With placid hand, my long chibouque,
That is to say, my Turkish pipe,
And having clapp'd it in my cheek,
Disdaining ere a word to speak,
I shouted to the pirate, ‘Now,
You've fairly beat me, I allow,’” &c.
When sailing at the noon of night,
Bismillah! whom did we descry
But dark corsairs, who, bent on spoil,
Athwart the deep sea ever toil!—
We know their blood-red flags on high:
The Capitan he call'd, belike,
With gesture proud, to bid us strike,
And told his Sonbachis to spare
Of not one scalp a single hair,
Though garbs of green showed Emirs there!
It boots not, Pacha, to relate
What souls were sent to Eblis throne,
How Azrael's arrows scatter'd fate,
How wild, wet, wearied, and alone,
When all my crew were drench'd in blood,
Or floated lifeless on the flood,
I fought, unawed, nor e'er thought I
To shout ‘Amaun,’ the craven's cry.—
I took my handkerchief to wipe
My burning brow, and then I took,
With placid hand, my long chibouque,
That is to say, my Turkish pipe,
And having clapp'd it in my cheek,
Disdaining ere a word to speak,
I shouted to the pirate, ‘Now,
You've fairly beat me, I allow,’” &c.
237
[Oh! mortal man, how varied is thy lot]
Oh! mortal man, how varied is thy lot,
Thy ecstasies of joy and sorrow, how
Chill'd, sunk, and servile art thou, or how hot
Flashes indignant beauty from thy brow!
Times change, and empires fall; the gods allow
Brief space for human contemplation, and
Above all partial dictates disavow
Unequal love; how can we, at their hand,
For individual fate a gentler boon demand!
Thy ecstasies of joy and sorrow, how
Chill'd, sunk, and servile art thou, or how hot
Flashes indignant beauty from thy brow!
Times change, and empires fall; the gods allow
Brief space for human contemplation, and
Above all partial dictates disavow
Unequal love; how can we, at their hand,
For individual fate a gentler boon demand!
Childe Paddy parted from his father's cot;
It was not castle proud, nor palace high,
Extraneous symmetry here glitter'd not,
But turf-built walls and filth did meet the eye;
Loud was the grumph and grumble from hog-stye;
Swans gleam'd not here, as on the Leman lake,
But goose and ducklings, famed for gabbling cry,
With quack, quack, quack, did make the roofs to shake,
Till in their utmost holes the wondering rats did quake!
It was not castle proud, nor palace high,
Extraneous symmetry here glitter'd not,
But turf-built walls and filth did meet the eye;
Loud was the grumph and grumble from hog-stye;
Swans gleam'd not here, as on the Leman lake,
But goose and ducklings, famed for gabbling cry,
With quack, quack, quack, did make the roofs to shake,
Till in their utmost holes the wondering rats did quake!
He thought of father, whom he loved, and left;
He thought of mother, at her booming wheel;
He thought of sister, of his care bereft;
He thought of brethren dear; and, to conceal
The endless pangs that o'er his brain did reel,
As through the vale his pensive way he took,
For fear his onward purpose would congeal
He sung, while pacing with right-forward look,
“Sweet Kitty of Coleraine,” and “Fair of Donabrooke!”
He thought of mother, at her booming wheel;
He thought of sister, of his care bereft;
He thought of brethren dear; and, to conceal
The endless pangs that o'er his brain did reel,
As through the vale his pensive way he took,
For fear his onward purpose would congeal
He sung, while pacing with right-forward look,
“Sweet Kitty of Coleraine,” and “Fair of Donabrooke!”
238
[Theyre wals ane Brounie offe mucle faime]
Theyre wals ane Brounie offe mucle faime
Thatte ussit too cumme too ane aulde fairme housse
Ande evir the maydes fro theyre beddes came,
Alle theyre werke wals dune, soo cannye and douce.
Thatte ussit too cumme too ane aulde fairme housse
Ande evir the maydes fro theyre beddes came,
Alle theyre werke wals dune, soo cannye and douce.
The cauppis wure cleanit; the yerne wals spunne,
Ande the parritche aye maide forre the oulde guidman,
The kye wure milkit, the yill wals runne,
Ande shininge lyke goude wals the ould brasse pan.
Ande the parritche aye maide forre the oulde guidman,
The kye wure milkit, the yill wals runne,
Ande shininge lyke goude wals the ould brasse pan.
Aude mickle theye wonderit, and mair theye thocht,
But neivir ane wurde too theyre minny spake theye,
Theye lukit aye too the braas theye hadde cofft,
Too buske theyre hayre, and to maike theme gaye.
But neivir ane wurde too theyre minny spake theye,
Theye lukit aye too the braas theye hadde cofft,
Too buske theyre hayre, and to maike theme gaye.
Thenne outte spake Jennye, the youngeste ane,
“I'm shure to mye Jocke itte wull gie delyghte,
Ande maike the laddye a' fidginge faine,
Too see the luffes offe mye handes soe whyte.”
“I'm shure to mye Jocke itte wull gie delyghte,
Ande maike the laddye a' fidginge faine,
Too see the luffes offe mye handes soe whyte.”
Thenne outte spake Kirstene, as doune she satte
Before the glasse toe kaim herre hayre,
“Oh! luke,” quoth she, “I amme gettinge soe fatte,
Thatte I offe idlesse muste beware.
Before the glasse toe kaim herre hayre,
“Oh! luke,” quoth she, “I amme gettinge soe fatte,
Thatte I offe idlesse muste beware.
“The neiburs theye wille kenne noe mee,
Forre I'm scrimply aible to gaung aboutte,
Iffe I gette on soe, ye wulle brieflye see
A hurlye cofft toe carrye mee outte,” &c.
Forre I'm scrimply aible to gaung aboutte,
Iffe I gette on soe, ye wulle brieflye see
A hurlye cofft toe carrye mee outte,” &c.
THE KAIL POT.
If e'er, in pensive guise, thy steps have stray'd
At eve or morn, along that lofty street,
Yclept the Canongate, exalt thine eyes,
And lo! between thee and the azure sky,
Dangling in negro blackness beautiful,
A kail pot hangs, upon an iron bar
Suspended, and by iron chains hung down.
Beneath it yawns a threshold, like the den
Of Cacus, giant old, or like the caves
Of sylvan satyrs in the forests green;—
There enter, and, amid his porter butts,
In conscious wisdom bold, sits Nathan Goose,
Worshipping the muses and a mug of ale!
At eve or morn, along that lofty street,
Yclept the Canongate, exalt thine eyes,
239
Dangling in negro blackness beautiful,
A kail pot hangs, upon an iron bar
Suspended, and by iron chains hung down.
Beneath it yawns a threshold, like the den
Of Cacus, giant old, or like the caves
Of sylvan satyrs in the forests green;—
There enter, and, amid his porter butts,
In conscious wisdom bold, sits Nathan Goose,
Worshipping the muses and a mug of ale!
Sweet are the songs of Nathan Goose, and strong
Yea! potent is the liquor that he sells;
On many a cold and icy winter night,
When stars were sparkling in the deep blue sky,
Have, circling round his board, a jovial throng,
Tippled until the drowsy chime of twelve.
Strange has it seem'd to me, that we, who breathe
Vapours, as watery as the cooling drops
Of Rydal Mere, should drink combustibles,
And perish not; yet, thereby, of the soul
The cogitations are disturb'd; its dreams
Are hollows by reality and time
Fulfill'd not, and the waking spirit mourns,
When shines the sun above the eastern sea,—
The ocean seen from Black Comb's summit high,
And throws his yellow light against the pane
Of chamber window,—window deep embower'd
With honey-suckle blossoms;—o'er the wrecks
Of such fantastical, and inane stuff,
Shadows, and dreams, and visions of the night.—
Then follow headaches dreadful, vomitings
Of undigested biscuit, mingled with
The sour and miserable commixture of
Hot aqua vitæ, with the mountain lymph,—
If city water haply be so call'd,—
The lymph of Fountain-well, hard by the shop
Where seeds and roots are sold, above whose door
The black-eyed eagle spreads his golden wings.
Yea! potent is the liquor that he sells;
On many a cold and icy winter night,
When stars were sparkling in the deep blue sky,
Have, circling round his board, a jovial throng,
Tippled until the drowsy chime of twelve.
Strange has it seem'd to me, that we, who breathe
Vapours, as watery as the cooling drops
Of Rydal Mere, should drink combustibles,
And perish not; yet, thereby, of the soul
The cogitations are disturb'd; its dreams
Are hollows by reality and time
Fulfill'd not, and the waking spirit mourns,
When shines the sun above the eastern sea,—
The ocean seen from Black Comb's summit high,
And throws his yellow light against the pane
Of chamber window,—window deep embower'd
With honey-suckle blossoms;—o'er the wrecks
Of such fantastical, and inane stuff,
Shadows, and dreams, and visions of the night.—
Then follow headaches dreadful, vomitings
Of undigested biscuit, mingled with
The sour and miserable commixture of
Hot aqua vitæ, with the mountain lymph,—
If city water haply be so call'd,—
The lymph of Fountain-well, hard by the shop
Where seeds and roots are sold, above whose door
The black-eyed eagle spreads his golden wings.
Hard is the lot of him, whom evil fates
Have destined to a way of life unmeet;
Whose genius and internal strength are clogg'd
By drudgery, and the rubs of common men.
But I have gazed upon thee, Nathan Goose,
Gazed on the workings of thy inward soul—
Hail'd with delight thy planet in the sky,
And mid the constellations planted thee! &c.
Have destined to a way of life unmeet;
Whose genius and internal strength are clogg'd
By drudgery, and the rubs of common men.
But I have gazed upon thee, Nathan Goose,
Gazed on the workings of thy inward soul—
Hail'd with delight thy planet in the sky,
And mid the constellations planted thee! &c.
240
BILLY BLINN.
I knew a man that died for love,
His name, I ween, was Billy Blinn;
His back was hump'd, his hair was gray,
And, on a sultry summer day,
We found him floating in the linn.
His name, I ween, was Billy Blinn;
His back was hump'd, his hair was gray,
And, on a sultry summer day,
We found him floating in the linn.
Once as he stood before his door,
Smoking, and wondering who should pass,
Then trundling past him in a cart
Came Susan Foy, she won his heart,
She was a gallant lass.
Smoking, and wondering who should pass,
Then trundling past him in a cart
Came Susan Foy, she won his heart,
She was a gallant lass.
And Billy Blinn conceal'd the flame
That burn'd, and scorch'd his very blood;
But often was he heard to sigh,
And with his sleeve he wiped his eye,
In a dejected mood.
That burn'd, and scorch'd his very blood;
But often was he heard to sigh,
And with his sleeve he wiped his eye,
In a dejected mood.
A party of recruiters came
To wile our cottars, man and boy;
Their coats were red, their cuffs were blue,
And boldly, without more ado,
Off with the troop went Susan Foy!
To wile our cottars, man and boy;
Their coats were red, their cuffs were blue,
And boldly, without more ado,
Off with the troop went Susan Foy!
When poor old Billy heard the news,
He tore his hairs so thin and gray;
He beat the hump upon his back,
And ever did he cry, “Alack,
Ohon, oh me!—alas a-day!”
He tore his hairs so thin and gray;
He beat the hump upon his back,
And ever did he cry, “Alack,
Ohon, oh me!—alas a-day!”
His nights were spent in sleeplessness,
His days in sorrow and despair;
It could not last—this inward strife;
The lover he grew tired of life,
And saunter'd here and there.
His days in sorrow and despair;
It could not last—this inward strife;
The lover he grew tired of life,
And saunter'd here and there.
At length, 'twas on a moonlight eve,
The skies were blue, the winds were still;
He wander'd from his wretched hut
And, though he left the door unshut,
He sought the lonely hill.
The skies were blue, the winds were still;
He wander'd from his wretched hut
241
He sought the lonely hill.
He look'd upon the lovely moon,
He look'd upon the twinkling stars;
“How peaceful all is there,” he said,
“No noisy tumult there is bred,
And no intestine wars.”
He look'd upon the twinkling stars;
“How peaceful all is there,” he said,
“No noisy tumult there is bred,
And no intestine wars.”
But misery overcame his heart,
For all was waste and war within;
And rushing forward with a leap,
O'er crags a hundred fathoms steep,
He plunged into the linn.
For all was waste and war within;
And rushing forward with a leap,
O'er crags a hundred fathoms steep,
He plunged into the linn.
We found him when the morning sun
Shone brightly from the eastern sky;
Upon his back he was afloat—
His hat was sailing like a boat—
His staff was found on high.
Shone brightly from the eastern sky;
Upon his back he was afloat—
His hat was sailing like a boat—
His staff was found on high.
Oh, reckless woman, Susan Foy,
To leave the poor, old, loving man,
And with a soldier, young and gay,
Thus harlot-like to run away
To India or Japan.
To leave the poor, old, loving man,
And with a soldier, young and gay,
Thus harlot-like to run away
To India or Japan.
Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white,
Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold;
Will Adze he made a coffin neat,
We placed him in it head and feet,
And laid him in the mould!
Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold;
Will Adze he made a coffin neat,
We placed him in it head and feet,
And laid him in the mould!
242
Inishowen.
I
I care not a fig for a flagon of flip,Or a whistling can of rumbo;
But my tongue through whisky punch will slip
As nimble as Hurlothrumbo.
So put the spirits on the board,
And give the lemons a squeezer,
And we'll mix a jorum, by the Lord!
That will make your worship sneeze, sir.
II
The French, no doubt, are famous souls,I love them for their brandy;
In rum and sweet tobacco rolls,
Jamaica men are handy.
The big-breech'd Dutch in juniper gin,
I own, are very knowing;
But are rum, gin, brandy, worth a pin,
Compared with Inishowen?
III
Though here with a Lord, 'tis jolly and fine,To tumble down Lacryma Christi,
And over a skin of Italy's wine
To get a little misty;
Yet not the blood of the Bourdeaux grape,
The finest grape-juice going,
Nor clammy Constantia, the pride of the Cape,
Prefer I to Inishowen.
How to woo!
Would you woo a young virgin of fifteen years,You must tickle her fancy with Sweets and Dears,
Ever toying and playing, and sweetly, sweetly,
Sing a love-sonnet and charm her ears—
Wittily, prettily, talk her down—
Phrase her and praise her, fair or brown—
Soothe her and smooth her,
And tease her and please her,
Ah! touch but her fancy, and all's your own.
243
There's not a Ioy that Life can give, &c.
1
There's not a joy that wine can give like that it takes away,When slight intoxication yields to drunkenness the sway,
'Tis not that youth's smooth cheek its blush surrenders to the nose,
But the stomach turns, the forehead burns, and all our pleasure goes.
2
Then the few, who still can keep their chairs amid the smash'd decanters,Who wanton still in witless jokes, and laugh at pointless banters—
The magnet of their course is gone—for, let them try to walk,
Their legs, they speedily will find as jointless as their talk.
3
Then the mortal hotness of the brain, like hell itself, is burning,It cannot feel, nor dream, nor think—'tis whizzing, blazing, turning—
The heavy wel, or port, or rum, has mingled with our tears,
And if by chance we're weeping drunk, each drop our cheek-bone sears.
4
Though fun still flow from fluent lips, and jokes confuse our noddlesThrough midnight hours, while punch our powers insidiously enfuddles,
'Tis but as ivy leaves were worn by Bacchanals of yore,
To make them still look fresh and gay while rolling on the floor.
5
Oh! could I walk as I have walk'd, or see as I have seen;Or even roll as I have done on many a carpet green—
As port at Highland inn seems sound, all corkish though it be,
So would I the Borachio kiss, and get blind drunk with thee.
244
'Tis in vain to complain.
1
'Tis in vainTo complain,
In a melancholy strain,
Of the days that are gone, and will never come again.
Be we gay,
While we may,
At whatever time of day,
Be our locks berry brown, or mottled o'er with gray,
Be our locks berry brown, or mottled o'er with gray.
2
We have laughed,We have quaffed,
We have raked it fore and aft,
But out of pleasure's bowl have not emptied all the draught.
Never mind
Days behind,
But still before the wind,
Float after jolly souls, full flasks, and lasses kind,
Float after jolly souls, full flasks, and lasses kind.
Chanson a Boire.
1
Time and we should swiftly pass;He the hour-glass, we the glass.—
Drink! yon beam which shines so bright
Soon will sink in starless night:
Ere it sink, boys, ere it sink—
Drink it dim, boys! drink, drink, drink!
2
Drink before it be too late—Snatch the hour you may from fate;
Here alone true wisdom lies,
To be merry's to be wise.—
Ere ye sink, boys—ere ye sink—
Drink ye blind, boys! drink, drink, drink!
245
Song of a Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-Punch.
By T. M., Esq.
Heap on more coal there,
And keep the glass moving,
The frost nips my nose,
Though my heart glows with loving.
Here's the dear creature,
No skylights—a bumper;
He who leaves heeltaps
I vote him a mumper.
With hey cow rumble O
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,
Push round the jorum.
And keep the glass moving,
The frost nips my nose,
Though my heart glows with loving.
Here's the dear creature,
No skylights—a bumper;
He who leaves heeltaps
I vote him a mumper.
With hey cow rumble O
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,
Push round the jorum.
What are Heaven's pleasures
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,
In long or short metre.
Planked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,
Met to make speeches.
With hey cow rumble, &c.
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,
In long or short metre.
Planked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,
Met to make speeches.
With hey cow rumble, &c.
Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl
Heap'd to the full is.
Then if some wise one
Thinks that up “yonder”
Is pleasant as we are,
Why—he's in a blunder.
With hey cow rumble, &c.
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl
Heap'd to the full is.
Then if some wise one
Thinks that up “yonder”
Is pleasant as we are,
Why—he's in a blunder.
With hey cow rumble, &c.
255
[“Let us drink and be merry]
“Let us drink and be merry,
Dance, laugh, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry,
Theorbo and sherry.
Dance, laugh, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry,
Theorbo and sherry.
“This changeable world
To our joys is unjust;
All pleasure's uncertain,
So down with your dust.
To our joys is unjust;
All pleasure's uncertain,
So down with your dust.
“In pleasure dispose
Your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we all shall be nothing
A hundred years hence.”
Your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we all shall be nothing
A hundred years hence.”
257
An Hundred Years Hence.
I
“Let us drink and be merry,Dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry,
Theorbo and voice.”
So sings the old song,
And a good one it is;
Few better were written,
From that day to this:
And I hope I may say it,
And give no offence,
Few more will be better,
An hundred years hence.
II
In this year eighteen hundredAnd twenty and two,
There are plenty of false ones
And plenty of true.
There are brave men and cowards;
And bright men and asses;
There are lemon-faced prudes;
There are kind-hearted lasses.
He who quarrels with this
Is a man of no sense,
For so 'twill continue
An hundred years hence.
III
There are people who raveOf the national debt,
Let them pay off their own
And the nation's forget;
Others bawl for reform,
Which were easily done,
If each would resolve
To reform Number One;
258
I make no pretence,
I'll be as wise as my neighbors
An hundred years hence.
IV
I only rejoice, thatMy life has been cast
On the gallant and glorious
Bright days which we've past;
When the flag of Old England
Waved lordly in pride,
Wherever green Ocean
Spreads his murmuring tide:
And I pray that unbroken
Her watery fence
May still keep off invaders,
An hundred years hence.
V
I rejoice that I saw herTriumphant in war,
At sublime Waterloo,
At dear-bought Trafalgar;
On sea and on land,
Wheresoever she fought,
Trampling Jacobin tyrants
And slaves as she ought:
Of Church and of King
Still the firmest defence:—
So may she continue
An hundred years hence.
VI
Whey then need I grieve, ifSome people there be,
Who, foes to their country,
Rejoice not with me;
Sure I know in my heart,
That Whigs ever have been
Tyrannic, or turnspit,
Malignant, or mean:
They were and are scoundrels
In every sense,
And scoundrels they will be
An hundred years hence.
VII
So let us be jolly,Why need we repine?
If grief is a folly,
Let's drown it in wine!
As they scared away fiends
By the ring of a bell,
So the ring of the glass
Shall blue devils expel:
With a bumper before us
The night we'll commence
By toasting true Tories
An hundred years hence.
259
A Dozen Years Hence.
I
“Let's drink and be merry,Dance, sing, and rejoice,”—
So runs the old carol,
“With music and voice.”
Had the Bard but survived
Till the year thirty-three,
Methinks he'd have met with
Less matter for glee;
To think what we were
In our days of good sense,
And think what we shall be
A dozen years hence.
II
O! once the wide ContinentRang with our fame,
And nations grew still
At the sound of our name;
The pride of Old Ocean,
The home of the free,
The scourge of the despot,
By shore and by sea,
Of the fallen and the feeble
The stay and defence—
But where shall our fame be
A dozen years hence?
III
The peace and the plentyThat spread, over all
Blithe hearts and bright faces
In hamlet or hall;
Our yeomen so loyal
In greenwood or plain,
Our true-hearted burghers
We seek them in vain;
For Loyalty's now
In the pluperfect tense,
And freedom's the word
For a dozen years hence.
IV
The Nobles of Britain,Once foremost to wield
Her wisdom in council,
Her thunder in field,
Her Judges, where learning
With purity vied,
Her sound-headed Churchmen,
Time-honour'd, and tried;
To the gift of the prophet
I make no pretence,
But where shall they all be
A dozen years hence?
V
Alas! for old Reverence,Faded and flown;
Alas! for the Nobles,
The Church, and the Throne,
When to Radical creeds,
Peer and Prince must conform,
And Catholics dictate
Our new Church Reform;
While the schoolmaster swears
'Tis a useless expense,
Which his class won't put up with
A dozen years hence.
VI
Perhaps twere too muchTo rejoice at the thought,
That its authors will share
In the ruin they wrought;
260
All their betters away,
Will hardly spare Durham,
Or Russell, or Grey:
For my part I bear them
No malice prepense,
But I'll scarce break my heart for't,
A dozen years hence.
VII
When Cobbett shall ruleOur finances alone,
And settle all debts
As he settled his own;
When Hume shall take charge
Of the National Church,
And leave his old tools,
Like the Greeks, in the lurch!
They may yet live to see
The new era commence,
With their own “Final Measure,”
A dozen years hence.
VIII
Already those excellentFriends of the mob,
May taste the first fruits
Of their Jacobin Job;
Since each braying jackass
That handles a quill,
Now flings up his heels
At the poor dying Bill;
And comparing already
The kicks with the pence,
Let them think of the balance
A dozen years hence.
IX
When prisons give placeTo the swift guillotine,
And scaffolds are streaming
Where churches have been;
We too, or our children,
Believe me, will shake
Our heads—if we have them—
To find our mistake;
To find the great measure
Was all a pretence,
And be sadder and wiser
A dozen years hence.
261
The Pewter Quart.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE—WRITTEN AND COMPOSED FOR THE JOLLIFICATION OF BIBBERS OF BEER, PORTER, ALE, STOUT, NAPPY, AND ALL OTHER CONFIGURATIONS OF MALT AND HOP.
Preface to the Reader, which serves also for Invocation.
Gentle Reader!
Poets there were, in ages back,
Who sung the fame of the bonny Black Iack;
Others tuned harmonious lans
In the Leathern Bottle's praise;
Shall not I then lift my quill,
To hymn a measure brighter still?
Who sung the fame of the bonny Black Iack;
Others tuned harmonious lans
In the Leathern Bottle's praise;
Shall not I then lift my quill,
To hymn a measure brighter still?
Maidens, who Helicon's hill resort,
Aid me to chaunt of the Pewter Quart.
Aid me to chaunt of the Pewter Quart.
2.
As for the glass, though I love it well,Yet the quart I take to be prefera—ble;
For it is solid and stout, like what
Bubbles and froths inside the pot:
Why should anything, brittle or frail,
Fence England's liquor, valorous ale!
He was a man of taste and art,
Who stowed it away in a Pewter Quart.
262
3.
In the bowels of England's ground,Its materials all are found,
From its sides should flow again,
What cheers the bowels of England's men:
Can the same be said, I ask,
In favour of foreign flagon or flask?
None can of them the good report,
We can of our national Pewter Quart.
4.
Pleasant it is their shine to see,Like stars in the waves of deep Galilee;
Pleasant it is their chink to hear,
When they rattle on table full charged with beer;
Pleasant it is, when a row's on foot,
That you may, when you wish to demolish a brute,
Politely the man to good manners exhort,
By softening his skull with a Pewter Quart.
5.
As for the mallet-pate, pig-eye Chinese,They may make crockery if they please;
Fit, perhaps, may such vehicle be,
For marrowless washes of curst Bohea;
That is a liquor I leave to be drunk
By Cockney poet and Cockney punk;
Folks with whom I never consort,
Preferring to chat with my Pewter Quart.
6.
Silver and gold no doubt are fine,But on my table shall never shine;
Being a man of plain common sense,
I hate all silly and vain expense,
And spend the cash these gew-gaws cost,
In washing down gobbets of boiled and roast,
With stingo stiff of the stiffest sort,
Curiously pulled from a Pewter Quart.
7.
Bakers and bowls, I am told, of wood,For quaffing water are counted good;
They give a smack, say the wat'ry folks,
Like drinking after artichokes,
263
Water in either my belly or shoes;
And shall never be counted art or part
In putting the same in a Pewter Quart.
8.
Galvani one day, skinning a frog,To pamper his paunch with that pinch-gut prog,
Found out a science of wonderful wit,
Which can make a stuck pig kick out in a fit.
Make a dead thief dance a Highland reel,
And butcher a beast without cleaver or steel:
And he proves by this science with erudite art,
That malt must be drunk from a Pewter Quart.
9.
If Hock then loves the glass of green,And champagne in its swan-necked flask is seen;
If Glasgow punch in a bowel we lay,
And twist off our dram in a wooden quaigh;
If, as botanical men admit,
Everything has its habitat fit,
Let Sir John Barleycorn keep his court,
Turban'd with froth in his Pewter Quart.
10.
So, boy, take this handful of brass,Across to the Goose and Gridiron pass,
Count the coin on the counter out,
And bring me a quart of foaming stout;
Put it not into bottle or jug,
Cannikin, rumkin, flagon, or mug—
Into nothing at all, in short,
Except the natural Pewter Quart.
264
The Leather Bottle.
Now God above, that made all things,Heaven and earth, and all therein;
The ships upon the seas to swim,
To keep foes out, then come not in.
Now every one doth what he can
All for the use and praise of man.
I wish in Heaven that soul man dwell
That first devised the leathern bottle.
265
[Now, what do you say to the canns of wood?]
Now, what do you say to the canns of wood?Faith, they are nought, they cannot be good;
When a man for beer he doth therein send,
To have them filled, as he doth intend:
The bearer stumbleth by the way,
And on the ground his liquor doth lay;
Then straight the man begins to ban,
And swears it, 'twas long of the wooden can;
But had it been in a leathern bottle,
Although he stumbled, all had been well;
So safe therein it would remain,
Until the man got up again.
And I wish in heaven, &c.
266
[Now for the pots with handles three]
Now for the pots with handles three,Faith, then shall have no praise of me,
When a man and his wife do fall at strife,
(As many, I fear, have done in their life,)
They lay their hands upon the pot both,
And break the same, though they were loth;
Which they shall answer another day,
For casting their liquor so vainly away:
But had it been in a bottle filled,
The one might have tugged, the other have held;
Then both might have tugged till their hearts did ake,
And yet no harm the bottle would take.
And I wish in heaven, &c.
267
[Now what of the flagons of silver fine?]
Now what of the flagons of silver fine?Faith, they shall have no praise of mine.
When a nobleman he doth them send
To have them filled, as he doth intend,
The man with his flagon runs quite away,
And never is seen again after that day.
Oh, then his lord begins to ban,
And swears he hath lost both flagon and man:
But it ne'er was known that page or groom,
But with a leathern bottle again would come.
And I wish in heaven, &c.
[Of tilting furniture, emblazoned shields]
Of tilting furniture, emblazoned shields,Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights,
At till and tournament; then marshall'd feast,
Served up in hall with sewers and seneschals.
268
[Now, what do you say to these glasses fine?]
Now, what do you say to these glasses fine?Faith, they shall have no praise of mine,
When friends are at a table set,
And by them several sorts of meat,
The one loves flesh, the other fish;
Among them all remove a dish;
Touch but a glass upon the brim,
The glass is broke; no wine left in:
Then be your table-cloth ne'er so fine.
There lies your beer, your ale, your wine;
And, doubtless, for so small abuse,
A young man may his service lose.
And I wish, &c.
269
[Now when this bottle is grown old]
Now when this bottle is grown oldAnd that it will no longer hold,
Out of the side you may cut a clout,
To mend your shoe when worn out;
Or hang the other side on a pin,
'Twill serve to put many odd trifles in,
As nails, awls, and candles' ends;
For young beginners need such things.
I wish in Heaven his soul man dwell
That first invented the Leathern Bottle.
['Tis a pitiful thing, that now-a-days, sirs]
'Tis a pitiful thing, that now-a-days, sirs,Our poets turn Leathern Bottle praisers;
But if a leathern theam they did lack,
They might better have chosen the bonny Black Iack;
For when they are both now well worn and decayed,
For the Iack, than the bottle, much more can be said.
And I wish his soul much good may partake,
That first devised the bonny Black Iack.
270
[And now I will begin to declare]
And now I will begin to declareWhat the conveniences of the Iack are.
First, when a gang of good fellows do meet,
As oft at a fair, or a wake, you shall see't;
They resolve to have some merry carouses,
And yet to get home in good time to their houses;
Then the bottle it runs as slow as my rhime,
With Iack, they might have all been drunk in good time.
And I wish his soul in peace may dwell,
That first devised that speedy vessel.
271
[And therefore leave your twittle twattle]
And therefore leave your twittle twattle,Praise the Iack, praise no more the Leathern Bottle;
For the man at the bottle may drink till he burst,
And yet not handsomely quench his thirst:
The master hereat maketh great moan,
And doubts his bottle has a spice of the stone;
But if it had been a generous Iack,
He might have had currently what he did lack:
And I wish his soul in Paradise,
That first found out that happy device.
[Be your liquor small, or thick as mud]
Be your liquor small, or thick as mud,The cheating bottle that cries good, good;
Then the master again begins to storm,
Because it said more than it could perform:
But if it had been in an honest Black Iack,
It would have proved better to sight, smell, and smack;
And I wish his soul in Heaven may rest,
That added a Iack to Bacchus's feast.
[No flagon, tankard, bottle, or iug]
No flagon, tankard, bottle, or iug,Is half so fit, or so well can hold tug;
For when a man and his wife play at thwacks,
There is nothing so good as a pair of Black Iacks:
Thus to it they go, they swear, and they curse,
It makes them both better, the Iack's ne'er the worse;
For they might have banged both, till their hearts did ake,
And yet no hurt the Iacks could take:
And I wish his heirs may have a pension,
That first produced that lucky invention.
272
[Socrates and Aristotle]
Socrates and AristotleSucked no wit from a Leather Bottle;
For surely I think a man as soon may
Find a needle in a bottle of hay:
But if the Black Iack a man often toss over,
'Twill make him as drunk as any philosopher;
When he that makes Iacks from a peck to a quart,
Conjures not, though he lives by the black art.
And I wish, &c.
273
[Besides, my good friend, let me tell you, that fellow]
Besides, my good friend, let me tell you, that fellowThat framed the bottle, his brains were but shallow;
The case is so clear, I nothing need mention,
The Iack is a nearer and deeper invention;
When the bottle is cleaned, the dregs fly about,
As if the guts and the brains flew out;
But if in a cannon-bore Iack it had been,
From the top to the bottom all might have been clean.
And I wish his soul no comfort man lack,
That first devised the bouncing Black Iack.
274
[Your leathèr bottle is used by no man]
Your leathèr bottle is used by no man
That is a hair's-breadth above a plowman;
Then let us gang to the Hercules pillars,
And there let us visit those gallant Iack swillers;
In these small, strong, sour, mild, and stale,
They drink orange, lemon, and Lambeth ale:
The chief of heralds there allows,
The Iack to be of an ancienter house.
And may his successors never want sack,
That first devised the long Leather Iack.
That is a hair's-breadth above a plowman;
Then let us gang to the Hercules pillars,
And there let us visit those gallant Iack swillers;
In these small, strong, sour, mild, and stale,
They drink orange, lemon, and Lambeth ale:
The chief of heralds there allows,
The Iack to be of an ancienter house.
And may his successors never want sack,
That first devised the long Leather Iack.
Then for the bottle, you cannot well fill it,
Without a tunnel, but that you must spill it;
'Tis as hard to get in, as it is to get out,
'Tis not so with a Iack, for it runs like a spout
Then burn your bottle, what good is in it,
One cannot well fill it, nor drink nor clean it;
But if it had been in a jolly Black Iack,
'Twould come a great pace, and hold you good tack.
And I wish his soul, &c.
Without a tunnel, but that you must spill it;
275
'Tis not so with a Iack, for it runs like a spout
Then burn your bottle, what good is in it,
One cannot well fill it, nor drink nor clean it;
But if it had been in a jolly Black Iack,
'Twould come a great pace, and hold you good tack.
And I wish his soul, &c.
He that's drunk in a Iack, looks as fierce as a spark,
That were just ready cockt to shoot at a mark;
When the other thing up to the mouth it goes,
Makes a man look with a great bottle nose;
All wise men conclude, that a Iack, new or old,
Tho' beginning to leak, is however worth gold;
For when the poor man on the way does trudge it,
His worn-out Iack serves him for a budget.
And I wish his heirs may never lack sack,
That first contrived the leather Black Iack.
That were just ready cockt to shoot at a mark;
When the other thing up to the mouth it goes,
Makes a man look with a great bottle nose;
All wise men conclude, that a Iack, new or old,
Tho' beginning to leak, is however worth gold;
For when the poor man on the way does trudge it,
His worn-out Iack serves him for a budget.
And I wish his heirs may never lack sack,
That first contrived the leather Black Iack.
When bottle and Iack stand together, fie on't,
The bottle looks just like a dwarf to a giant;
Then have we not reason the Iack for to choose,
For they can make boots, when the bottle mends shoes;
For add but to every Iack a foot,
And every Iack becomes a boot:
Then give me my Iack, there's a reason why,
They have kept us wet, they will keep us dry.
I now shall cease, but as I am an honest man,
The Iack deserves to be called Sir John.
And may they ne'er want, for belly nor back,
That keep up the trade of the bonny Black Iack.
The bottle looks just like a dwarf to a giant;
Then have we not reason the Iack for to choose,
For they can make boots, when the bottle mends shoes;
For add but to every Iack a foot,
And every Iack becomes a boot:
Then give me my Iack, there's a reason why,
They have kept us wet, they will keep us dry.
I now shall cease, but as I am an honest man,
The Iack deserves to be called Sir John.
And may they ne'er want, for belly nor back,
That keep up the trade of the bonny Black Iack.
277
An Idyl on the Battle.
Fists and the man I sing, who, in the valleys of Hampshire,
Close to the borough of Andover, one fine day of the spring-time,
Being the twentieth of May, (the day, moreover, was Tuesday,)
Eighteen hundred and twenty-three, in a fistical combat,
Beat, in a handful of rounds, Bill Neat, the butcher of Bristol.
What is the hero's name? Indeed, 'tis bootless to mention.
Every one knows 'tis Spring—Tom Spring, now Champion of England.
Close to the borough of Andover, one fine day of the spring-time,
Being the twentieth of May, (the day, moreover, was Tuesday,)
Eighteen hundred and twenty-three, in a fistical combat,
Beat, in a handful of rounds, Bill Neat, the butcher of Bristol.
What is the hero's name? Indeed, 'tis bootless to mention.
Every one knows 'tis Spring—Tom Spring, now Champion of England.
Full of honours and gout, Tom Cribb surrendered his kingdom,
And in the Champion's cup no more he quaffs as the Champion.
Who is to fill his place? the anxious nation, inquiring,
Looks round the ring with a glance of hope and eagerness blended.
Everywhere would you see deep-drawn and puckered-up faces,
Worn by the people in thought on this high and ponderous matter.
Spain and Greece are forgot—they may box it about at their pleasure;
Newport may brandish his brogue unheard at the Sheriff of Dublin;
Canning may give the lie to Brougham, and Brougham be a Christian;
Hume may be puffing Carlile, or waging a war upon Cocker;
Byron may write a poem, and Hazlitt a Liber Amoris;
Nobody cares a fig for the Balaam of Baron or Cockney.
All were absorbed at once in the one profound speculation,
Who was the man to be the new pugilistical Dymoke.
And in the Champion's cup no more he quaffs as the Champion.
Who is to fill his place? the anxious nation, inquiring,
Looks round the ring with a glance of hope and eagerness blended.
Everywhere would you see deep-drawn and puckered-up faces,
Worn by the people in thought on this high and ponderous matter.
Spain and Greece are forgot—they may box it about at their pleasure;
Newport may brandish his brogue unheard at the Sheriff of Dublin;
278
Hume may be puffing Carlile, or waging a war upon Cocker;
Byron may write a poem, and Hazlitt a Liber Amoris;
Nobody cares a fig for the Balaam of Baron or Cockney.
All were absorbed at once in the one profound speculation,
Who was the man to be the new pugilistical Dymoke.
Neat and the Gasman put up, and the light of Gas was extinguished.
Woe is my heart for Gas! accursed be the wheel of the waggon
Which made a pancake of blood of the head of that elegant fellow.
He had no chance with Neat; the fist of that brawny Bristolian
Laid him in full defeat on the downs of Hungerford prostrate.
Great was the fame of Bill; the ancient city of Bristol
[Bristol, the birth-place dear of the Laureate LL.D. Southey—
Bristol, the birth-place too of Thomas Cribb the ex-Champion]
Hailed him with greetings loud; and, boldly declaring him matchless,
Challenged the boxing world to try his valour in contest.
Woe is my heart for Gas! accursed be the wheel of the waggon
Which made a pancake of blood of the head of that elegant fellow.
He had no chance with Neat; the fist of that brawny Bristolian
Laid him in full defeat on the downs of Hungerford prostrate.
Great was the fame of Bill; the ancient city of Bristol
[Bristol, the birth-place dear of the Laureate LL.D. Southey—
Bristol, the birth-place too of Thomas Cribb the ex-Champion]
279
Challenged the boxing world to try his valour in contest.
London replied to the call—the land of the Cockneys, indignant
At this yokel attempt to set up a Champion provincial,
Looked with its great big eyes at Spring, and Spring understood it,
Everything soon was arranged; the time was fixed for the battle;
Cash on each side was posted, a cool two hundred of sovereigns;
And the affair was put beneath the guidance of Jackson.
I sha'n't delay my song to say, how some Justices tasteless
Twice by the felon hand of power prevented the combat.
Vain the attempt as base—as well the clashing of comets
Would be prevented by them, as the onslaught of pugilist rivals.
At this yokel attempt to set up a Champion provincial,
Looked with its great big eyes at Spring, and Spring understood it,
Everything soon was arranged; the time was fixed for the battle;
Cash on each side was posted, a cool two hundred of sovereigns;
And the affair was put beneath the guidance of Jackson.
I sha'n't delay my song to say, how some Justices tasteless
Twice by the felon hand of power prevented the combat.
Vain the attempt as base—as well the clashing of comets
Would be prevented by them, as the onslaught of pugilist rivals.
When the great day arrived, big with the glory of Britain,
Bustle be sure there was, and riding, and running, and racing;
Nay, for three days before, the roads were wofully crowded;
All the inns were beset, each bed had a previous engagement;
So, if you came in late, you were left in a bit of a hobble—
Either to camp in the street, or sleep on three chairs in the bar-room.
Chaises, coaches, barouches, taxed carts, tilburies, whiskeys,
Curricles, shandry-dans, gigs, tall phaetons, jaunting cars, waggons,
Cabriolets, landaus, all sorts of vehicles rolling,
Four-wheeled, or two-wheeled, drawn by one, two, three, or four horses;
Steeds of various degrees, high-mettled racer, or hunter,
Bit of blood, skin-and-boner, pad, hack, mule, jackass, or donkey;
Sniffers on foot in droves, by choice or economy prompted;
Grumbling Radical, pickpocket Whig, and gentleman Tory,
Down from ducal rank to the rascally fisher of fogles,
Poured from London town to see the wonderful action.
Thirty thousand at least were there; and ladies in numbers
Rained from their beautiful eyes sweet influence over the buffers.
Bustle be sure there was, and riding, and running, and racing;
Nay, for three days before, the roads were wofully crowded;
All the inns were beset, each bed had a previous engagement;
So, if you came in late, you were left in a bit of a hobble—
Either to camp in the street, or sleep on three chairs in the bar-room.
Chaises, coaches, barouches, taxed carts, tilburies, whiskeys,
Curricles, shandry-dans, gigs, tall phaetons, jaunting cars, waggons,
Cabriolets, landaus, all sorts of vehicles rolling,
Four-wheeled, or two-wheeled, drawn by one, two, three, or four horses;
Steeds of various degrees, high-mettled racer, or hunter,
Bit of blood, skin-and-boner, pad, hack, mule, jackass, or donkey;
Sniffers on foot in droves, by choice or economy prompted;
Grumbling Radical, pickpocket Whig, and gentleman Tory,
Down from ducal rank to the rascally fisher of fogles,
Poured from London town to see the wonderful action.
Thirty thousand at least were there; and ladies in numbers
Rained from their beautiful eyes sweet influence over the buffers.
Well the ground was chosen, and quite with the eye of a poet;
Close to the field of fight, the land all rises around it,
Amphitheatrical wise, in a most judgmatical fashion.
There had the Johnny-raws of Hants ta'en places at leisure,
Many an hour before the combatants came to the turn-up.
Close to the field of fight, the land all rises around it,
Amphitheatrical wise, in a most judgmatical fashion.
There had the Johnny-raws of Hants ta'en places at leisure,
280
We were not idle, be sure, although we waited in patience;
Drink of all sorts and shapes was kindly provided to cheer us;
Ales from the famous towns of Burton, Marlboro', Taunton;
Porter from lordly Thames, and beer of various descriptions;
Brandy of Gallic growth, and rum from the isle of Jamaica;
Deady, and heavy wet, blue ruin, max, and Geneva;
Hollands that ne'er saw Holland, mum, brown stout, perry, and cyder;
Spirits in all ways prepared, stark-naked, hot or cold watered;
Negus, or godlike grog, flip, lambswool, syllabub, rumbo;
Toddy, or punch, or shrub, or the much sung stingo of gin-twist;
Wines, in proportions less, their radiance intermingling.
Flowed like a stream round the ring, refreshing the dry population.
Glad was I in my soul, though I missed my national liquor,
And with a tear in my eye my heart fled back into Ireland.
Whiskey, my jewel dear, what though I have chosen a dwelling
Far away, and my throat is now-a-days moistened by Hodges,—
Drink of my early days, I swear I shall never forget thee!
Round the ring we sat, the stiff stuff tipsily quaffing.
[Thanks be to thee, Jack Keats; our thanks for the dactyl and spondee
Pestleman Jack, whom, according to Shelley, the Quarterly murdered
With a critique as fell as one of his own patent medicines.]
Drink of all sorts and shapes was kindly provided to cheer us;
Ales from the famous towns of Burton, Marlboro', Taunton;
Porter from lordly Thames, and beer of various descriptions;
Brandy of Gallic growth, and rum from the isle of Jamaica;
Deady, and heavy wet, blue ruin, max, and Geneva;
Hollands that ne'er saw Holland, mum, brown stout, perry, and cyder;
Spirits in all ways prepared, stark-naked, hot or cold watered;
Negus, or godlike grog, flip, lambswool, syllabub, rumbo;
Toddy, or punch, or shrub, or the much sung stingo of gin-twist;
Wines, in proportions less, their radiance intermingling.
Flowed like a stream round the ring, refreshing the dry population.
Glad was I in my soul, though I missed my national liquor,
And with a tear in my eye my heart fled back into Ireland.
Whiskey, my jewel dear, what though I have chosen a dwelling
Far away, and my throat is now-a-days moistened by Hodges,—
Drink of my early days, I swear I shall never forget thee!
Round the ring we sat, the stiff stuff tipsily quaffing.
[Thanks be to thee, Jack Keats; our thanks for the dactyl and spondee
Pestleman Jack, whom, according to Shelley, the Quarterly murdered
With a critique as fell as one of his own patent medicines.]
Gibbons appeared at last; and, with adjutants versed in the business,
Drove in the stakes and roped them. The hawbuck Hottentot Hantsmen
Felt an objection to be whipped out of the ring by the Gibbons.
Fight was accordingly shewn, and Bill, afraid of the numbers,
Kept his whip in peace, awaiting the coming of Jackson.
Soon did his eloquent tongue tip off the blarney among them;
And what force could not do, soft talk performed in a jiffy.
Drove in the stakes and roped them. The hawbuck Hottentot Hantsmen
Felt an objection to be whipped out of the ring by the Gibbons.
Fight was accordingly shewn, and Bill, afraid of the numbers,
Kept his whip in peace, awaiting the coming of Jackson.
Soon did his eloquent tongue tip off the blarney among them;
281
Arm-in-arm with his backer and Belcher, followed by Harmer,
Neat in a moment appeared, and instantly flung down his castor.
In about ten minutes more, came Spring, attended by Painter;
Cribb, the illustrious Cribb, however, acted as second.
Compliments, then, were exchanged, hands shaken, after the fashion
Of merry England for ever, the beef-eating land of the John Bulls.
Blue as the arch of Heaven, or the much-loved eyes of my darling,
Was the colour of Spring—to the stakes Cribb tied it in person.
Yellow, like Severn streams, when the might of rain has descended,
Shone forth the kerchief of Neat. Tom Belcher tied it above Spring's—
But with a delicate twist, Tom Cribb reversed the arrangement,
Putting the blue above. The men then peeled for the onset.
Twenty minutes past One P.M.—So far for a preface.
Neat in a moment appeared, and instantly flung down his castor.
In about ten minutes more, came Spring, attended by Painter;
Cribb, the illustrious Cribb, however, acted as second.
Compliments, then, were exchanged, hands shaken, after the fashion
Of merry England for ever, the beef-eating land of the John Bulls.
Blue as the arch of Heaven, or the much-loved eyes of my darling,
Was the colour of Spring—to the stakes Cribb tied it in person.
Yellow, like Severn streams, when the might of rain has descended,
Shone forth the kerchief of Neat. Tom Belcher tied it above Spring's—
But with a delicate twist, Tom Cribb reversed the arrangement,
Putting the blue above. The men then peeled for the onset.
Twenty minutes past One P.M.—So far for a preface.
Round the First.
Spring was a model of manhood. Chantrey, Canova, or Scoular,Graved not a finer form; his muscles firmly were filled up,
And with elastic vigour played all over his corpus;
Fine did his deltoid show; his neck rose towering gently
Curved from the shoulder broad; his back was lightsomely dropt in.
Over his cuticle spread a slightly ruddy suffusion,
Shewing his excellent state, and the famous care of his trainers;
Confidence beamed from his face; his eye shone steady in valour.
Valiantly, too, looked Neat, a truly respectable butcher,
But o'er his skin the flush was but in irregular patches:
Even on his cheeks, the bloom was scarce the breadth of a dollar.
Gin, thou wert plainly there! I would he had left thee to Hazlitt,
Ay, or to any one else, all during the process of training!
Bootless 'tis now to complain—Bill Neat, you were bothered by Daffy!
Long did they pause ere they hit—much cautious dodging and guarding
Shewed their respect for each other; four tedious minutes, ere either
Struck, had elapsed; at last Tom Spring hit out with the left hand,
So did Bill Neat with the right, but neither blow did the business,
Neat then made up for offence, and flung out a jolly right-hander,
Full for the stomach of Spring; but Spring judiciously stopped it,
282
Even as it was, it contused the fleshy part of his fore-arm.
Neat tried the business again—'twas now more happily parried.
Spring, with a smile at the thought of the smash he had given to Bill's fist,
Put down his hands for a while, but soon gathered up to the onset;
Hit and re-hit now passed, but Neat threw off a right-hander
Meant for certain effect. The true scientifical manner
Shewn by William in this was loftily cheered by the audience,
Thunders of clapping ensued, and the whole ring roared like a bullock,
Neat grew offensive now, but the stop and parry of Winter
[Winter is Spring's real name, though they call him, for brevity, Tom Spring.]
Punished him step by step, as Bill drove him into the corner.
“Now is the time,” cried Belcher, and Bristol waited the triumph,
But the position of Spring prevented all awkward invasion.
In-fighting then was tried, that came to a close and a struggle:
Under came Billy Neat, as Ajax under Ulysses.
Spring came over him hard—and 3 to 2 was the betting.
Round the Second.
Spring shewed the same strong guard, but ever ready for action.Neat began to breathe short, when, wap! came a flushy right-hander,
Plump on his fore-head, and, lo! the stream of the claret was flowing,
Sanguine as butchers will bleed, not at all like the ichor of angels.
Out did he hit to the right—Spring sprung back—Neat again tried it,
But, on the side of the head, he got such a lump of a twister,
That he was turned quite round, and nearly saluted his mother.
Stupid and senseless he looked like a young whig lawyer of Embro'—
(Some little mealy-faced pup, amazed with a recent suffusion
From the uplisted leg of some big boardly bull-dog of Blackwood)—
Then did the hooting arise, from various people indignant;
And, in the hubbub loud, “Cross, Cross!” was frequently mentioned.
This brought Neat to his senses, and straight he took to in-fighting.
Bloody hard hits came from both—'twas head-work chiefly between them:
Down in the end went Neat, and blue looked the betters of Bristol!
Round the Third.
Neat tried his hand at hard hitting—and then were the heavy exchanges.But in one counter-hit, his blow was heavier than Tommy's,
For it sent him away. Bill Neat then burst out a-laughing,
283
He followed up his success; and after ringing the changes,
Planted a terrible lunge on the short-rib department of Thomas.
Then he gave all his weight to a blow, and floored his opponent,
Coming down with him himself. On this, a terrible uproar
Rose from the Men of the West—a shout of jubilant cheering.
Short is the vision of man! that very round had undone him,
For, in the counter-hit, he broke a bone in his fore-arm.
What is the name of the bone?—Well, since you ask me the question,
Radius, 'tis called by Cline, a most anatomical surgeon.
Round the Fourth.
Firm was the guard of Spring; Neat worked most anxious to get in—Vainly—for Spring baffled all his attempts, just as if he was sparring.
Soon he took the offensive, and the woful yokels of Avon
Heard his fists, right and left, rap! rap! on the body of Billy.
One—two nobbers, besides, did he administer freely;
All the while poor Bill felt out for the ribs with the left hand;
Every hit being short, and the right hand quite ineffective:
Backward and forward jumped Spring, and grasping his burly opponent,
Caught him up from the ground, and fell down fairly upon him.
Glorious! sublime was the feat, and there was no saying against it.
Bristol looked very blank, as blank as the Island of Byron.
Loud did the Westerns cry, “Bill, what has become of your right hand?
Gemini, man! My eyes! Hey! Go it! What are you arter?”
Betting was 5 to 1.—In fact, Bill Neat was defeated.
Rounds Fifth and Sixth.
Lump we a couple of rounds, for I'm in a devilish hurry,Being invited to dine at the Dog and Duck with Pierce Egan
284
Who, as we happen to know, can not tell a man's head from a turnip.
All his hits were at random; on getting a bodier slanting,
Down he'd have gone for time, but Spring, with the kindest intentions,
Lent him a merry-go-down, to freshen his way in the tumble.
Murmurs then were of foul play, as if he had fallen out of fancy
Without the aid of a hit; but Jackson, unerring as Delphi,
Stated the fact as it was, and decision dwelt on his dictate.
As for round the sixth, 'tis hardly worth the relating.
Neat was pelted about, and knocked down like a cow in the shambles.
Round the Seventh.
Still there was pluck in Bill; Spring feared a customer rummish.Cautiously, therefore, he fought and parried the sinister lunges.
One, however, took place on the right lower ribs of the hero,
Whereon he sparred for a hit, which he planted with ease and affection,
Right on the brain-box of Neat, who, though not given to praying,
Sunk on his marrow-bones straight, in a fashion godly and pious.
Instantly rose a shout, a riff-raff-ruffianly roaring,
Hallabulloo immense, a most voluminous volley;
Cockneyland crowed like a cock, and the hills gave an echo politely.
Round Eight and Last.
Neat came up once more, but the fight was over; again he
Hit with the dexter arm, and felt that he now was defeated.
Spring in a moment put in a ramstam belly-go fister—
Down to the ground went Neat, and with him down went the battle.
“It is no use,” said Bill; “my arm, do you see me, is injured—
Therefore I must give in.” He spoke—and, mournfully placing
On the sore part his hand, he shewed the fracture to Tom Spring.
Seven-and-thirty minutes it lasted—ten of them wasted
In the first round alone. The glorious news came to London
Somewhere about eight o'clock; but still incredulous people
Held the report as false; and, even approaching to midnight,
Bets were laid on Neat—so much was Spring undervalued.
Hit with the dexter arm, and felt that he now was defeated.
Spring in a moment put in a ramstam belly-go fister—
Down to the ground went Neat, and with him down went the battle.
“It is no use,” said Bill; “my arm, do you see me, is injured—
Therefore I must give in.” He spoke—and, mournfully placing
On the sore part his hand, he shewed the fracture to Tom Spring.
Seven-and-thirty minutes it lasted—ten of them wasted
In the first round alone. The glorious news came to London
Somewhere about eight o'clock; but still incredulous people
Held the report as false; and, even approaching to midnight,
Bets were laid on Neat—so much was Spring undervalued.
Woe was in Bristol town—woe, woe on the Severn and Avon;
Cliston, the seat of the gay, looked dull and awfully gloomy;
Grief was in Bath the polite; a mournful air of dejection
Reigned o'er the tables of whist; and mugs, as fair as the morning,
Looked like the ten of spades, or the face of my Lord Grim-Grizzle.
Round the old Redcliff church was held an aggregate meeting,
Stormy and sad by fits—where some, with sceptical speeches,
Doubted the fact of the case—or, cunningly crooking the fingers,
Made a X in the open air, affronting the moon-beams;
Others but shook the head, and jingled the coin in their pockets,
Cheering themselves with the much-loved sound of the gold for the last time.
But in the shambles of Bristol, among the butcherly people,
There was the blackness of sorrow; loud oaths, or sorrowful moaning,
Rung in the seat of slaughter—but slaughter now was suspended;
Mute was the marrow-bone now, the ancient music of Britain;
Cleaver, and bloody axe, steel, hand-saw, chopping-block, hatchet,
Lay in a grim repose; and the hungry people of Bristol
Could not the following day get a single joint for their dinner.
But when the cross was suggested, the whole black body of butchers
Raged, like a troubled sea, with a wild and mutinous uproar.
Cliston, the seat of the gay, looked dull and awfully gloomy;
Grief was in Bath the polite; a mournful air of dejection
Reigned o'er the tables of whist; and mugs, as fair as the morning,
285
Round the old Redcliff church was held an aggregate meeting,
Stormy and sad by fits—where some, with sceptical speeches,
Doubted the fact of the case—or, cunningly crooking the fingers,
Made a X in the open air, affronting the moon-beams;
Others but shook the head, and jingled the coin in their pockets,
Cheering themselves with the much-loved sound of the gold for the last time.
But in the shambles of Bristol, among the butcherly people,
There was the blackness of sorrow; loud oaths, or sorrowful moaning,
Rung in the seat of slaughter—but slaughter now was suspended;
Mute was the marrow-bone now, the ancient music of Britain;
Cleaver, and bloody axe, steel, hand-saw, chopping-block, hatchet,
Lay in a grim repose; and the hungry people of Bristol
Could not the following day get a single joint for their dinner.
But when the cross was suggested, the whole black body of butchers
Raged, like a troubled sea, with a wild and mutinous uproar.
Such was the state of the West. Meanwhile Spring travelled to London,
There to be hailed as the Champion bold of merry Old England.
Neat he saw in bed—his arm was fastened with splinters—
And in the heel of his fist Tom nobly inserted some shiners.
Bill was sulky, however; and still he lustily vaunted,
That, if his arm had not broke, he must have been hailed as the Champion—
That can be known, however, to the Fates and Jupiter only.
There to be hailed as the Champion bold of merry Old England.
Neat he saw in bed—his arm was fastened with splinters—
And in the heel of his fist Tom nobly inserted some shiners.
Bill was sulky, however; and still he lustily vaunted,
That, if his arm had not broke, he must have been hailed as the Champion—
That can be known, however, to the Fates and Jupiter only.
Where are the chaffers now, who swore that Spring was no hitter?
That he could scarce make a dint in a pound or a half-pound of butter?—
Melted all fast away, like the butter of which they were speaking.
Long live the Champion Spring! and may his glorious annals
Shine in the pages of Egan as bright as the record of Tom Cribb!
One man more must be fought, however;—Arise to the combat,
Rise for the Champion's crown, arise, I say, Joshua Hudson!
That will be the fight—meanwhile Spring lords the ascendant;
Therefore huzza for Spring—and I make my bow to the public.
That he could scarce make a dint in a pound or a half-pound of butter?—
Melted all fast away, like the butter of which they were speaking.
Long live the Champion Spring! and may his glorious annals
Shine in the pages of Egan as bright as the record of Tom Cribb!
One man more must be fought, however;—Arise to the combat,
286
That will be the fight—meanwhile Spring lords the ascendant;
Therefore huzza for Spring—and I make my bow to the public.
[“To-morrow for fresh fights and pastures new.”]
—Milton.
M. OD.
287
LAMENT OF A BIG BRISTOL BUTCHER.
1
I was as raw as butcher's meat,I was as green as cabbage,
288
The ugly-looking savage.
2
I was as dull as Bristol stone,And as the Severn muddy,
Or I should have had the humbug known,
Of that big bruiser bloody.
3
I was as dull as a chopping-block,As stupid as a jack-ass,
Or I'd not have laid on such a cock
One whiff of my tobaccoes.
4
For budding flower, or leafing tree,I now don't care a splinter;
For Spring is a colder thought to me
Than the bitterest day of Winter.
5
Woe, woe unto the market-place!Woe, woe among the cleavers!
For sad is every greasy face
Among Bill Neat's believers.
6
I'm rooked of notes both small and great,I'm rooked of every sovereign;
So bloody curses on Bill Neat,
Whatever king may govern!
289
A Twist-imony in Favour of Gin-Twist.
1
At one in the morn, as I went staggering home,With nothing at all in my hand, but my fist,
At the end of the street, a good youth I did meet
Who ask'd me to join in a jug of gin-twist.
2
“Though 'tis late,” I replied, “and I'm muggy beside,Yet, an offer like this I could never resist;
So let's waddle away, sans a moment's delay,
And in style we'll demolish your jug of gin-twist.”
3
The friends of the grape, may boast of rich Cape,Hock, Claret, Madeira, or Lachryma Christ,
But this muzzle of mine was never so fine,
As to value them more than a jug of gin-twist.
4
The people of Nantz, in the Kingdom of France,Bright brandy they brew, liquor not to be hiss'd;
It may do as a dram, but, 'tis not worth a damn,
When water'd, compared with a jug of gin-twist.
5
Antigua, Jamaica,—they certainly make aGrand species of rum, which should ne'er be dismiss'd;
It is splendid as grog, but never, you dog,
Esteem it as punch, like a jug of gin-twist.
290
6
Ye Bailies of Glasgow! Wise men of the West!Without your rum bowls, you'd look certainly tristes;
Yet I laugh when I'm told, that liquor so cold
Is as good as a foaming hot jug of gin-twist.
7
The bog-trotting Teagues, in clear whiskey delight,Preferring potsheen to all drinks that exist;
I grieve, ne'ertheless, that it does not possess
The juniper smack of a jug of gin-twist.
8
Farintosh and Glenlivit, I hear, are the boastOf those breechesless heroes, the Sons of the Mist;
But, may I go choke, if that villainous smoke
I'd name in a day with a jug of gin-twist.
9
Yet the Celtic I love, and should join them, by Jove!Though Glengarry should vow I'd no right to enlist;
For that Chief, do you see, I'd not care a bawbee,
If strongly entrench'd o'er a jug of gin-twist.
10
One rule they lay down is the reason, I own,Why from joining their plaided array I desist;
Because they declare, that no one shall wear
Of breeches a pair, o'er their jugs of gin-twist.
11
This is plainly absurd, I give you my word,Of this bare-rump'd reg'lation I ne'er saw the gist;
In my gay corduroys, can't these philabeg boys
Suffer me to get drunk o'er my jug of gin-twist?
12
In India they smack a liquor call'd rack,Which I never quaff'd, (at least that I wist;)
I'm told 'tis like tow in its taste, and so,
Very different stuff from a jug of gin-twist.
13
As for porter and ale—'fore Gad, I turn pale,When people on such things as these can insist;
They may do for dull clods, but, by all of the gods!
They are hog-wash when match'd with a jug of gin-twist,
291
14
Why tea we import, I could never conceive;To the mandarin folk, to be sure, it brings grist;
But in our western soils, the spirits it spoils,
While to heaven they are raised by a jug of gin-twist.
15
Look at Hazlitt and Hunt, most unfortunate pair!Black and blue from the kicks of a stern satirist;
But would Mynheer Izzard once trouble their gizzard,
If bohea they exchanged for a jug of gin-twist?
16
Leibnitz held that this earth was the first of all worlds,And no wonder the buck was a firm optimist;
For 'twas always his use, as a proof to adduce,
Of the truth of his doctrine, a jug of gin-twist.
17
It cures all the vapours and mulligrub capers;It makes you like Howard, the philanthro-pist;
Woe, trouble, and pain, that bother your brain,
Are banish'd out clean, by a jug of gin-twist.
18
You turn up your nose at all your foes,Abuse you, traduce you, they may if they list:
The lawyers, I'm sure, would look very poor,
If their clients would stick to their jugs of gin-twist.
19
There's Leslie, my friend, who went ramstam to law,Because Petre had styled him a poor Hebraist;
And you see how the Jury, in spite of his fury,
Gave him comfort far less than one jug of gin-twist.
20
And therefore, I guess, Sir, the celebre Professor,Even though culpably quizz'd as a mere sciolist,
292
And got drunk with Kit North o'er a jug of gin-twist.
22
By its magical aid, a toper is made,Like Brockden Brown's hero, a ventriloquist;
For my belly cries out, with an audible shout,
“Fill up every chink with a jug of gin-twist.”
23
Geologers all, great, middling, and small,Whether fiery Plutonian or wet Neptunist,
Most gladly, it seems, seek proofs for their schemes,
In the water, or spirit, of a jug of gin-twist.
24
These grubbers of ground, (whom God may confound!)Forgetting transition, trap, hornblende, or schist,
And all other sorts, think only of quartz—
I mean, of the quarts in a jug of gin-twist.
25
Though two dozen of verse I've contriv'd to rehearse,Yet still I can sing like a true melodist;
For they are but asses, who think that Parnassus
In spirit surpasses a jug of gin-twist.
26
It makes you to speak Dutch, Latin, or Greek;Even learning Chinese very much 'twould assist:
I'll discourse you in Hebrew, provided that ye brew
A most Massorethical jug of gin-twist.
27
When its amiable stream, all enveloped in steam,Is dash'd to and fro by a vigorous wrist,
How sweet a cascade every moment is made
By the artist who fashions a jug of gin-twist!
28
Sweet stream! there is none but delights in thy flow,Save that vagabond villain, the Whig atheist;
293
When he dared to wage war 'gainst a jug of gin-twist.
29
Don't think, by its name, from Geneva it came,The sour little source of the Kirk Calvinist—
A fig for Jack Calvin, my processes alvine
Are much more rejoiced by a jug of gin-twist.
30
Let the Scotsman delight in malice and spite,The black-legs at Brooke's, in hazard or whist;
Tom Dibdin in books—Micky Taylor in cooks,
My pleasure is fixed in a jug of gin-twist.
31
Though the point of my nose grow as red as a rose,Or rival in hue a superb amethyst,
Yet no matter for that, I tell you 'tis flat,
I shall still take a pull at a jug of gin-twist.
32
There was old Cleobulus, who meaning to fool us,Gave out for his saying, to metpon apist';
But he'd never keep measure, if he had but the pleasure
Of washing his throat with a jug of gin-twist.
294
33
There are dandies and blockheads, who vapour and boastOf the favours of girls they never have kiss'd;
That is not the thing, and therefore by jing!
I kiss while I'm praising my jug of gin-twist.
34
While over the glass, I should be an ass,To make moping love like a dull Platonist;
That ne'er was my fashion, I swear that my passion
In as hot as itself for a jug of gin-twist.
35
Although it is time to finish my rhyme,Yet the subject's so sweet, I can scarcely desist;
While its grateful perfume is delighting the room,
How can I be mute o'er a jug of gin-twist?
36
Yet since I've made out, without any doubt,Of its merits and glories a flourishing list,
Let us end with a toast, which we cherish the most,
Here's “God save the King!” in a glass of gin-twist.
Moral.
Then I bade him good night in a most jolly plight,But I'm sorry to say that my footing I missed;
All the stairs I fell down, so I batter'd my crown,
And got two black eyes from a jug of gin-twist.
305
Cork is the Aiden for you, love, and me.
I
They may rail at the city where I was first born,But it's there they've the whiskey, and butter, and pork,
An' a nate little spot for to walk in each morn,
They calls it Daunt's Square, and the city is Cork!
The Square has two sides, why, one east, and one west;
And convanient's the ragion of frolic and spree,
Where salmon, drisheens, and beef-steaks are cook'd best,
Och! Fishamble's the Aiden for you, love, and me.
II
If you want to behold the sublime and the beauteous,Put your toes in your brogues, and see sweet Blarney Lane,
Where the parents and childer is comely and duteous,
And “dry lodgin” both rider and beast entertain;
In the cellars below dines the slashin' young fellows,
What comes with the butter from distant Tralee;
While the landlady, chalking the score on the bellows,
Sings, Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me.
III
Blackpool is another sweet place of that city,Where pigs, twigs, and wavers, they all grow together,
With its small little tanyards—och, more is the pity—
To trip the poor beasts to convert them to leather!
Farther up to the east, is a place great and famous,
It is called Mellow Lane—antiquaries agree
That it holds the Shibbeen which once held King Shamus:—
O! Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me.
IV
Then go back to Daunt's Bridge, though you'll think it is quareThat you can't see the bridge—faix! you ne'er saw the like
Of that bridge, nor of one-sided Buckingham Square,
Nor the narrow Broad lane, that leads up to the Dyke!
Where turning his wheel sits that Saint “Holy Joe,”
And numbrellas are made of the best quality,
And young vargints sing “Colleen das croothin a mo”
And Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me.
306
V
When you gets to the Dyke, there's a beautiful prospectOf a long gravel walk between two rows of trees;
On one side, with a beautiful southern aspect,
Is Blair's Castle, that trembles above in the breeze!
Far off to the west lies the lakes of Killarney,
Which some hills intervening prevents you to see;
But you smell the sweet wind from the wild groves of Blarney—
Och! Cork is the Aiden for you, love, and me!
VI
Take the road to Glanmire, the road to Blackrock, orThe sweet Boreemannah, to charm your eyes,
If you doubt what is Wise, take a dram of Tom Walker,
And if you're a Walker, toss off Tommy Wise!
I give you my word that they're both lads of spirit;
But if a “raw-chaw, ” with your gums don't agree,
Beamish, Crawford, and Lane, brew some porter of merit,
Tho' Potheen is the nectar for you, love, and me.
VII
Oh, long life to you, Cork, with your pepper-box steeple,Your girls, your whiskey, your curds, and sweet whey!
Your hill of Glanmire, and shops where the people
Gets decent new clothes down beyont the Coal Quay.
Long life to sweet Fair Lane, its pipers and jigs,
And to sweet Sunday's well, and the banks of the Lee,
Likewise to your coort-house, where judges in wigs
Sing, Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me!
315
BALLAD ON THE DEATH OF SIMON DE MONTFORT, EARL OF LEICESTER, AT THE BATTLE OF EVERSHAM, 1226.
BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.
“In woeful wise my song shall rise,
My heart impels the strain;
Tears fit the song, which tells the wrong,
Of gentle Barons slayn.
Fayr peace to gaine they fought in vayn;
Their house to ruin gave,
And limb and life, to butcheryng knyfe,
Our native land to save.
My heart impels the strain;
316
Of gentle Barons slayn.
Fayr peace to gaine they fought in vayn;
Their house to ruin gave,
And limb and life, to butcheryng knyfe,
Our native land to save.
CHORUS.
Now lowly lies the flower of pries,That could so much of weir:
Erle Montfort's scathe, and heavy death,
Shall cost the world a tear.
“As I here say, upon Tuesdaye,
The battle bold was done;
Each mounted knight, there fell in fight,
For ayd of foot was none:
There wounds were felt, and blows were dealt,
With brands that burnish'd be,
Sir Edward stoute, his numerous route,
Have won the maisterie.
The battle bold was done;
Each mounted knight, there fell in fight,
For ayd of foot was none:
There wounds were felt, and blows were dealt,
With brands that burnish'd be,
Sir Edward stoute, his numerous route,
Have won the maisterie.
Now lowly lies, &c.
“But, though he died, on Montfort's side
The victorie remain'd;
Like Becket's fayth, the Erle's in deathe,
The martyr's palm obtain'd;
That holy Saint would never graunt,
The church should fall or slyde;
Like him, the Erle met deadly peril,
And like him dauntless dyed.
The victorie remain'd;
Like Becket's fayth, the Erle's in deathe,
The martyr's palm obtain'd;
That holy Saint would never graunt,
The church should fall or slyde;
Like him, the Erle met deadly peril,
And like him dauntless dyed.
Now lowly lies, &c.
“The bold Sir Hugh Despencer true,
The kingdom's Justice he.
Was dom'd to die unrighteouslye,
By passynge crueltie;
And Sir Henry, the son was he
To Leister's nobile lord,
With many moe, as ye shall know,
Fell by Erle Gloster's sword.
The kingdom's Justice he.
Was dom'd to die unrighteouslye,
By passynge crueltie;
And Sir Henry, the son was he
To Leister's nobile lord,
With many moe, as ye shall know,
Fell by Erle Gloster's sword.
Now lowly lies, &c.
“He that dares dye, in standing by
The country's peace and lawe,
To him the Saint the meed shall graunt
Of conscience free from flawe.
Who suffers scathe, and faces death,
To save the poor from wrong,
God speed his end, the poor man's friend,
For suche we pray, and long!
The country's peace and lawe,
To him the Saint the meed shall graunt
Of conscience free from flawe.
317
To save the poor from wrong,
God speed his end, the poor man's friend,
For suche we pray, and long!
Now lowly lies, &c.
“His bosom here, a treasure dere.
A sackclothe shirt, they founde;
The felons there full ruthless were
Who stretched hym on the grounde.
More wrongs than be in butcherye,
They did the knight who fell,
To wield his sword, and keep his worde,
Who knew the way so well.
A sackclothe shirt, they founde;
The felons there full ruthless were
Who stretched hym on the grounde.
More wrongs than be in butcherye,
They did the knight who fell,
To wield his sword, and keep his worde,
Who knew the way so well.
Now lowly lies, &c.
“Pray as is meet, my brethern sweet,
The maiden Mary's son,
The infant fair, our noble heir,
In grace to guide him on.
I will not name the habit's claym,
Of that I will not saye;
But for Jesus' love, that sits above,
For churchmen ever pray.
The maiden Mary's son,
The infant fair, our noble heir,
In grace to guide him on.
I will not name the habit's claym,
Of that I will not saye;
But for Jesus' love, that sits above,
For churchmen ever pray.
Now lowly lies, &c.
“Seek not to see, of chivalrye,
Or count, or baron bold;
Each gallant knight, and squire of might
They all are bought and sold;
For loyaltie and veritie,
They now are done awaye—
The losel vile may reign by guile,
The fool by his foleye.
Or count, or baron bold;
Each gallant knight, and squire of might
They all are bought and sold;
For loyaltie and veritie,
They now are done awaye—
The losel vile may reign by guile,
The fool by his foleye.
Now lowly lies, &c.
“Sir Simon wight, that gallant knight,
And his companye eche one,
To heaven above, and joye and love.
And endless life, are gone.
May He on rood who bought our good,
And God, their paine relieve,
Who, captive ta'en, are kept in chaine,
And depe in dungeon grieve!
And his companye eche one,
To heaven above, and joye and love.
And endless life, are gone.
May He on rood who bought our good,
And God, their paine relieve,
Who, captive ta'en, are kept in chaine,
And depe in dungeon grieve!
318
“Now lowly lies the flower of pries,
That could so much of weir;
Erle Montsort's scathe, and heavy death,
Shall cost the world a tear.”
That could so much of weir;
Erle Montsort's scathe, and heavy death,
Shall cost the world a tear.”
319
Lament for Lord Byron.
Lament for Lord Byron,
In full slow of grief,
As a sept of Milesians
Would mourn o'er their chief!
With the loud voice of weeping,
With sorrow's deep tone,
We shall keen o'er our poet,
“All faded and gone.”
In full slow of grief,
As a sept of Milesians
Would mourn o'er their chief!
With the loud voice of weeping,
With sorrow's deep tone,
We shall keen o'er our poet,
“All faded and gone.”
Though in far Missolunghi
His body is laid;
Though the hands of the stranger
His lone grave have made;
Though no foot from Old England
Its surface will tread,
Nor the sun of Old England
Shine over its head;
His body is laid;
Though the hands of the stranger
His lone grave have made;
Though no foot from Old England
Its surface will tread,
Nor the sun of Old England
Shine over its head;
Yet, bard of the Corsair,
High-spirited Childe;
Thou who sang'st of Lord Manfred
The destiny wild!
Thou star, whose bright radiance
Illumined our verse,
Our souls cross the blue seas,
To mourn o'er thy hearse.
High-spirited Childe;
Thou who sang'st of Lord Manfred
The destiny wild!
Thou star, whose bright radiance
Illumined our verse,
Our souls cross the blue seas,
To mourn o'er thy hearse.
Thy faults and thy follies,
Whatever they were,
Be their memory dispersed
As the winds of the air;
No reproaches from me
On thy course shall be thrown,—
Let the man who is sinless
Uplift the first stone.
Whatever they were,
Be their memory dispersed
As the winds of the air;
No reproaches from me
On thy course shall be thrown,—
Let the man who is sinless
Uplift the first stone.
In thy vigor of manhood
Small praise from my tongue
Had thy fame or thy talents,
Or merriment wrung;
For that Church, and that State, and
That monarch I loved,
Which too oft thy hot censure
Or rash laughter moved.
Small praise from my tongue
Had thy fame or thy talents,
Or merriment wrung;
For that Church, and that State, and
That monarch I loved,
Which too oft thy hot censure
Or rash laughter moved.
But I hoped in my bosom
That moment would come,
When thy feelings would wander
Again to their home.
For that soul, O last Byron!
In brillianter hours,
Must have turn'd to its country—
Must still have been ours.
That moment would come,
When thy feelings would wander
Again to their home.
For that soul, O last Byron!
In brillianter hours,
Must have turn'd to its country—
Must still have been ours.
Now slumber, bright spirit!
Thy body, in peace,
Sleeps with heroes and sages,
And poets of Greece;
While thy soul in the tongue of
Even greater than they,
Is embalme'd till the mountains
And seas pass away.
Thy body, in peace,
Sleeps with heroes and sages,
And poets of Greece;
While thy soul in the tongue of
Even greater than they,
Is embalme'd till the mountains
And seas pass away.
Odoherty's Dirge
Oh! when I am departed and passed away,
Let's have no lamentations or sounds of dismay—
Meet together, kind lads, o'er a three-gallon bowl,
And so toast the repose of Odoherty's soul.
Down, derry down.
Let's have no lamentations or sounds of dismay—
Meet together, kind lads, o'er a three-gallon bowl,
And so toast the repose of Odoherty's soul.
Down, derry down.
If my darling girl pass, gently bid her come in,
To join the libation she'll think it no sin;
Though she choose a new sweetheart, and doff the black gown,
She'll remember me kindly when down—down—down—
Down, derry down.
To join the libation she'll think it no sin;
Though she choose a new sweetheart, and doff the black gown,
She'll remember me kindly when down—down—down—
Down, derry down.
361
Drink.
When Panurge and his fellows, as Rab'lais will tell us,
Set out on a sail to the ends of the earth,
And jollily cruising, carousing, and boozing,
To the oracle came in a full tide of mirth,
Pray what was its answer? come tell if you can, sir;
'Twas an answer most splendid and sage, as I think;
For sans any delaying, it summ'd up by saying,
The whole duty of man is one syllable—“Drink.”
Set out on a sail to the ends of the earth,
And jollily cruising, carousing, and boozing,
To the oracle came in a full tide of mirth,
Pray what was its answer? come tell if you can, sir;
'Twas an answer most splendid and sage, as I think;
For sans any delaying, it summ'd up by saying,
The whole duty of man is one syllable—“Drink.”
O bottle mirific! advice beatific!
A response more celestial sure never was known;
I speak for myself, I prefer it to Delphi,
Though Apollo himself on that rock fixed his throne;
The foplings of fashion may still talk their trash on,
And declare that the custom of toping should sink;
A fig for such asses, I stick to my glasses,
And swear that no fashion shall stint me in drink.
A response more celestial sure never was known;
I speak for myself, I prefer it to Delphi,
Though Apollo himself on that rock fixed his throne;
The foplings of fashion may still talk their trash on,
And declare that the custom of toping should sink;
A fig for such asses, I stick to my glasses,
And swear that no fashion shall stint me in drink.
And now in full measure I toast you with pleasure,
The warrior—
—the poet—
—the statesman—
—and sage;
Whose benign constellation illumines the nation,
And sheds lively lustre all over the age;
Long, long may its brightness, in glory and lightness,
Shine clear as the day-star on morning's sweet brink!
May their sway ne'er diminish! and therefore I finish,
By proposing the health of the four whom I drink.
The warrior—
—the poet—
—the statesman—
—and sage;
Whose benign constellation illumines the nation,
And sheds lively lustre all over the age;
362
Shine clear as the day-star on morning's sweet brink!
May their sway ne'er diminish! and therefore I finish,
By proposing the health of the four whom I drink.
Crambambulee.
Crambambulee!—all the world over,
Thou'rt mother's milk to Germans true—Tra li ra.
No cure like thee can sage discover
For colic, love, or devils blue—Tra li ra.
Blow hot or cold, from morn to night,
My dream is still my soul's delight,
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee!
Thou'rt mother's milk to Germans true—Tra li ra.
No cure like thee can sage discover
For colic, love, or devils blue—Tra li ra.
Blow hot or cold, from morn to night,
My dream is still my soul's delight,
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee!
Hungry and chill'd with bivouacking,
We rise ere song of earliest bird—Tra li ra.
Cannon and drums our ears are cracking,
And saddle, boot, and blade's the word—Tra li ra.
“Vite en l'avant,” our bugle blows,
A flying gulp and off it goes,
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee!
We rise ere song of earliest bird—Tra li ra.
Cannon and drums our ears are cracking,
And saddle, boot, and blade's the word—Tra li ra.
“Vite en l'avant,” our bugle blows,
A flying gulp and off it goes,
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee!
Victory's ours, off speed despatches,
Hourra! The luck for once is mine—Tra li ra.
Food comes by morsels, sleep by snatches,
No time, by Jove, to wash or dine—Tra li ra.
From post to post my pipe I cram,
Full gallop smoke, and suck my dram.
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee
Hourra! The luck for once is mine—Tra li ra.
Food comes by morsels, sleep by snatches,
No time, by Jove, to wash or dine—Tra li ra.
From post to post my pipe I cram,
Full gallop smoke, and suck my dram.
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee
When I'm the peer of kings and kaisers,
An order of my own I'll found—Tra li ra.
Down goes our gage to all despisers,
Our motto through the world shall sound—Tra li ra.
“Toujours fidele et sans souci,
C'est l'ordre de Crambambulee!”
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee!
An order of my own I'll found—Tra li ra.
Down goes our gage to all despisers,
Our motto through the world shall sound—Tra li ra.
“Toujours fidele et sans souci,
C'est l'ordre de Crambambulee!”
Cram-bam-bim-bam-bu-lee!—Crambambulee!
| Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn | |